Hoover was almost as badly off as Wint; and now and then he joined in this song. Jack Routt was cold sober, and coldly exultant. His eyes shone in the moonlight; and he handled Wint with rough tenderness.
When they were about half a block from the Caretall home, Wint became very sick; and Hoover sat down in the middle of the sidewalk and giggled at him while Routt, leaning against a tree above the sprawling body of his friend, waited until the paroxysms were past and then caught Wint’s shoulders again and dragged him to his feet.
Wint had thrown off some of the poison; he was able now to help himself a little more than before; and they got him to their destination. There Routt propped him against a tree before the house and shook him and tried to impress upon him the necessity of silence.
“Don’t you sing, now, Wint,” he warned. “Brace up. Have some sense. Keep quiet.”
Wint pettishly protested that he liked to sing, and that he was a good singer; and he tried to prove it on the spot, but Routt gagged him with the flat of his hand until Wint surrendered.
“Cut it out, Wint,” he insisted. “You’ve got to be quiet while we get you to bed.”
Then Routt felt a hand on his shoulder, and some one drawled: “You’ve done your share, Routt. Go along. I’ll tuck him in.”
He turned and saw Amos Caretall. Amos was in a bath robe of rough toweling over his nightshirt; and his feet were in carpet slippers. Routt was tongue-tied for a moment; then he found his voice. “I’m mighty sorry about this, sir,” he said. “I tried to keep him from drinking too much. But you can’t stop him. He’s such a darned fool.”
Amos grinned at him in a way that somehow frightened Routt. “He sure is the darndest fool I ever see,” he agreed. “But don’t you mind, Jack. Boys will be boys. You and—who is it?—oh, Hoover. You and Hoover run along home. I’ll tend to him.”
“Don’t you want me to help get him in the house?”