So, in a mad moment, the schoolmaster handed over his
roll of money, and that was the last he ever saw of it.
The next morning when he was up he was fierce with rage
and remorse for what he had done. He could not go back
to the school, and he had no money to go forward. So he
stayed where he was in the little hotel where he had got
drunk, and went on drinking. He looked so fierce and
unkempt that in the hotel they were afraid of him, and
the bar-tenders watched him out of the corners of their
eyes wondering what he would do; because they knew that
there was only one end possible, and they waited for it
to come. And presently it came. One of the bar-tenders
went up to the schoolmaster's room to bring up a letter,
and he found him lying on the bed with his face grey as
ashes, and his eyes looking up at the ceiling. He was
stone dead. Life had beaten him.
And the strange thing was that the letter that the
bartender carried up that morning was from the management
of the Louisiana Lottery. It contained a draft on New
York, signed by the treasurer of the State of Louisiana,
for two hundred thousand dollars. The schoolmaster had
won the Grand Prize.
The above story, I am afraid, is a little gloomy.
Pages:
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191