Before going to bed he had looked out of the window at the moonlit town below. And subconsciously he had noted the stout iron waterpipe—nearly a foot wide, including its supports—that ran transversely down the eaves, crossing just under the window and extending at the same angle to within a few feet of the ground, before turning and going directly downward.
An agile and cool-headed man might readily descend by means of this pipe. Whether or not he could return by the same route was quite another problem and one that the man’s rapidly wakening drink-lust did not trouble to take into account.
At worst he would be but anticipating a disgrace that was morally certain to come, soon or late.
Dad raised himself on his elbow. As he did so the door of his room opened and closed in utter noiselessness, and a square-shouldered little figure clad in white stood beside his bed.
“I knew I’d find you awake,” whispered Jimmie, perching on the bed’s edge. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Dad. I wanted to tell you before. But mother kept me in the room all the time the folks were here. It’s awful hard lines.”
“It can’t be helped,” said Dad, with an effort at philosophy.
“I got a hint of how it was going to be,” said the boy. “I heard mother and father talking. But I didn’t have the sand to tell you when you were so tickled at being asked here. And, anyway, I didn’t know how bad it would turn out. Mother is—”
“Mother is mother, Jim. Let’s try to remember that. She’s a good woman. She means it all for the best.”
“You told me once that Uncle Zach Taylor said the hot place was paved with the failures of folks who ‘meant it all for the best,’ Dad.”
“He never meant people like your mother, son. She does what she thinks is right. Remember we’re soldiers, you and I. And when soldiers are expecting a square meal and the commissary train gets lost they don’t whine. They just buckle their belts tighter and keep on the best they can. That’s the way it’s got to be with me for a while. It can’t be helped, and—”