Late one night, in his room at Mrs.
Purp's, he wrote a letter to Mr. Poodle. After mailing it at a
street-box, he had a sudden pang. To the dreamer, decisions are
fearful. Then he shook himself and ran lightly to a little
lunchroom on Amsterdam Avenue, where he enjoyed doughnuts and
iced tea. His mind was resolved. The doughnuts, by a simple
symbolism, made him think of Rotary Clubs, also of millstones.
No, he must be fugitive from honour, from wealth, from Chambers
of Commerce. Fugitive from all save his own instinct. Those who
have bound themselves are only too eager to see the chains on
others. There was no use attempting to explain to Mr. Beagle--the
dear old creature would not understand.
The next day, after happily and busily discharging his duties,
and staying late to clean up his desk, Gissing left Beagle and
Company for good. The only thing that worried him, as he looked
round his comfortable office for the last time, was the thought
of little Miss Whippet's chagrin when she found her new promotion
at an end.
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