I have said hard words of San Francisco; they must scarce be literally¹ understood (one cannot suppose the Israelites did justice to the land of Pharaoh); and the city took a fine revenge of me on my return. She had never worn a more becoming guise²; the sun shone, the air was lively, the people had flowers in their button-holes and smiles upon their faces; and as I made my way towards Jim’s place of employment, with some very black anxieties at heart, I seemed to myself a blot³ on the surrounding gaiety.

My destination was in a by-street in a mean, rickety building; “The Franklin H. Dodge⁴ Steam Printing Company” appeared upon its front, and in characters of greater freshness, so as to suggest recent conversion⁵, the watch-cry, “White Labour Only.” In the office, in a dusty pen, Jim sat alone before a table. A wretched change had overtaken him in clothes, body, and bearing; he looked sick and shabby; he who had once rejoiced in his day’s employment, like a horse among pastures, now sat staring on a column of accounts, idly chewing a pen, at times heavily sighing, the picture of inefficiency⁶ and inattention. He was sunk deep in a painful reverie; he neither saw nor heard me; and I stood and watched him unobserved. I had a sudden vain relenting. Repentance⁸ bludgeoned me. As I had predicted to Nares, I stood and kicked myself. Here was I come home again, my honour saved; there was my friend in want of rest, nursing, and a generous diet; and I asked myself with Falstaff, “What is in that word honour? what is that honour?” and, like Falstaff, I told myself that it was air.

“Jim!” said I.

“Loudon!” he gasped⁹, and jumped from his chair and stood shaking.

The next moment I was over the barrier, and we were hand in hand.

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