The ghost of what he might have been, nay, what he _could_ have made himself, rose wavering in his path.

Other ghosts, long laid, floated beside him, accompanying him--the ghosts of dead opportunities, dead ideals, lofty inspirations long, long strangled.
"A job," he muttered; "that's the wholesome dope for Willy.

There isn't a newspaper or magazine in town where I can't get next if I speak easy.
I can deliver the goods, too; it's like wiping swipes off a bar----" In his abstraction he had walked into the Holland House, and he suddenly became conscious that he was confronting a familiarly respectful bartender.
"Oh, hell," he said, greatly disconcerted, "I want some French vichy, Gus!" He made a wry face, and added: "Put a dash of tabasco in it, and salt it." A thick-lipped, ruddy-cheeked young fellow, celebrated for his knowledge of horses, also notorious for other and less desirable characteristics, stood leaning against the bar, watching him.
They nodded civilly to one another.

Quest swallowed his peppered vichy, pulled a long face and said: "We're a pair of 'em, all right." "Pair of what ?" inquired the thick-lipped young man, face becoming rosier and looking more than ever like somebody's groom.
"Pair of bum whips.

We've laid on the lash too hard.