"I'm through." "All right," said Sheridan.

He picked up the evening paper from a table, went to a chair by the fire and sat down, his back to his son.
"Good-by." Roscoe rose, his head hanging, but there was a dull relief in his eyes.
"Best I can do," he muttered, seeming about to depart, yet lingering.

"I figure it out a good deal like this," he said.

"I didn't KNOW my job was any strain, and I managed all right, but from what Gur--from what I hear, I was just up to the limit of my nerves from overwork, and the--the trouble at home was the extra strain that's fixed me the way I am.

I tried to brace, so I could stand the work and the trouble too, on whiskey--and that put the finish to me! I--I'm not hitting it as hard as I was for a while, and I reckon pretty soon, if I can get to feeling a little more energy, I better try to quit entirely--I don't know.