CHAPTER XVIII.
THE BANQUET, AND WHAT FOLLOWED.
Richard Ashton had been invited by some of his friends to a supper at the Metropolitan Hotel, which had been specially got up for his benefit.
His first thought was that he would absolutely refuse to accept the invitation—he was afraid he might be tempted to drink; but as he concluded it would be considered ungracious on his part to refuse he decided to go, but only on the understanding if there was any toast-drinking he would be permitted to pledge them in pure cold water.
When the members of the committee who had been appointed to wait upon him heard his decision, they said they certainly could not object to his observing his own mind; that they had no desire to cause him to violate his principles; in fact, they gave it as their opinion that there would not be a person present who would not respect him the more for proving that he had the courage of his convictions.
Upon the night appointed he went to the banquet, and it passed off as such affairs usually do. Many very gracious and pleasant things were said of the guest of the evening in the eulogistic strains which generally characterize speeches made on such occasions. How much of what was said was sincere, and how much mere complimentary phraseology of the dental kind, I will allow those who are in the habit of attending such parties to decide.
The meeting at last ended, as all meetings on earth do. But this differed in one respect from the great majority of such gatherings—that is, those who attended it at least left the banqueting room sober; though, as the sequel will show, one of them was not so fortunate as to reach his lodgings in that condition.
"I will accompany you home, Ashton," said one who had taken a very active part in the entertainment.
"I am sure, Chappell, I should like very much to have your company, but I could not think of allowing you to put yourself to such trouble on my account; of course you are aware that I am well acquainted with the city."
"Oh, I am well aware of that, but you seem to forget that until we cross the bridge my way home lies in the same direction as your own; and then I can, after seeing you up the avenue, cross by the way of Alexander or Jefferson Street to my own lodgings."
"It is exceedingly kind of you, Chappell, to make the offer, and I shall be thankful for your company as far as the bridge, but I shall insist upon our separating there, as I will soon reach Reid's after that."
Chappell, after what seemed at least to be a vigorous protest, finally yielded, and they started on their homeward journey.
The night was dark and cold—one of those chilly nights which we frequently experience in the first week of June—and they had to walk along briskly to keep themselves warm.
"Halloa, Chappell, is that you? Where are you going at this time of night? It seems to me rather peculiar that a man who sits in his pew every Sunday and listens to eloquent homilies on the evils that result from the keeping of late hours and indulging in bacchanalian revels should be wending his way home in the small hours of the morning. Come, sir, give an account of yourself!" and he slapped Chappell familiarly on the shoulder, and stood right in his way, hindering his further progress.
"Allow me, Lawrence," said Chappell, "before answering your question, to introduce you to Mr. Ashton."
"Oh, that is not necessary; we are old acquaintances, but I did not expect to have the pleasure of meeting him to-night. I thought he had migrated northward. I am happy to meet you again, Mr. Ashton; but it is cold, let us step into Conglin's, he is open yet. I want a few moments' conversation with you, Chappell."
Chappell asked Ashton if he would have any objections, and he, in reply, said if they would excuse him he'd journey homeward, for his friends, Mr. and Mrs. Reid, with whom he was stopping, would not go to bed until he returned, and he would be sinning against their hospitality by remaining longer.
"But a few moments will not make any particular difference," said Lawrence, "and you will particularly oblige me if you step in for a moment or two, as I should like to have your opinion in regard to something of consequence."
Ashton, who, as the reader has already discovered, had a facile disposition, and was easily persuaded, yielded, and followed Lawrence and Chappell into the cosy sitting-room of Conglin's hotel.
The fire was burning brightly, and the atmosphere of the room was particularly warm and comfortable to men who had been out in the chill night air as they had been, with clothing that was not heavy enough to keep them warm.
"Just remain here a moment or two, gentlemen," said Lawrence, "I have a word or two to say to our mutual friend, Tom."
According to his promise he soon returned, but the landlord accompanied him carrying a tray, upon which there were three steaming glasses of whiskey punch.
"Gentlemen," said Lawrence, "it is not necessary for me to introduce you to Tom Conglin, for you have both been acquainted with him and his liquors in the long ago, and you know he always kept the very best brands. But I think this old rye is better than any he has ever had before. It is only, however, as the Scripture says "darkening counsel by words," to tell either of you the quality of liquor, for you have only to taste to immediately and correctly pass judgment. It was in regard to this matter I asked for your counsel. Come, gentlemen, after paying your respects to our jolly host we will do honor to his liquor."
They both shook hands with old Tom Conglin, a large, red-faced individual, who, evidently, knew the flavor of his favorite liquors. He expressed himself as particularly delighted to meet Ashton, and said he was sorry that they lost him; which no doubt was true, for Ashton had been one of his best customers, and had left with him many a dollar.
Chappell, who was standing near to Ashton, and was afraid he was about to refuse, whispered to him not to do so. "It will give offence," he said. "A glass will do you no harm, and may do you a great deal of good."
When the tray was presented he hesitated a moment, and then stifling, as men will sometimes, every warning of conscience, he took the fatal glass, and was again the foolish victim of his facile disposition and his appetite for strong drink.
He might, if he had watched the faces of Chappell and Lawrence, have noticed that a significant look passed between them when he took the glass, and that a gleam of hellish triumph shone in their eyes.
"Come, Tom, bring us some more liquor," said Chappell. "I will have another glass of punch. What will you have, gentlemen?"
"I will have the same," said Lawrence.
"What will you have, Ashton?" and as Ashton hesitated a moment before replying Chappell spoke for him: "Silence gives consent; he will keep us company."
"Of course you will bring one for yourself, Tom."
"I never refuse to take a glass with a gentleman, especially in such company as the present."
They were soon engaged sipping their fuming punch, and in a very short time Ashton seemed the gayest and most voluble of the company.