Mauney was leaning against the desk watching him curiously and smiling at his mood. He wondered especially why Max was drinking.
“Do you want any help?” he asked, seeing that Lee still struggled with the cork.
“No, I scorn your assistance,” he laughed. “There we are! Pop! It had a nice pop, hadn’t it? And here’s your glass. I suppose you’re drinking?”
“Why, Max, old fellow! I’ll drink with you, yes. I’m in a good mood for murder or anything, to-night.”
Lee held up a beaker full of whiskey.
“Murder—eh? If that’s how you feel put that glass back on the desk. Don’t touch it. You’re not in a fit mood for drinking, my son. In order to drink one should be bathed in delightful reminiscences; one should feel at peace with the spacious present and most hopeful for the future.”
“And yet,” Mauney said, looking into his friend’s dark eyes, “I don’t seem to think you’re in that delightful mood either. What’s wrong?”
Lee laughed rather unrestrainedly. After quaffing off the beaker of liquor he filled the receptacle with water from a tap, drank it, smacked his lips, and then, putting down the beaker on the desk, lit a cigarette.
“I’m not really drunk, Mauney,” he replied more soberly. “I’m taking this stuff for stimulation. My health is not the best, unfortunately. Keep it dark; but I was up to pay a visit to Dr. Adamson this afternoon. Well, he went over my chest, and I guess I know why they turned me down for the army. I’ve got T.B. all right, so he thinks. Don’t be alarmed—”
“But you shouldn’t be working,” interrupted Mauney, in great astonishment over the news.