“Oh! then you'll promise? And you'll talk to him, and make HIM promise?”
“Of course,” said Hamlin quietly.
“And you'll remember he's sick—very sick? His room's No. 44, at the end of the hall. Perhaps I'd better go with you?”
“I'll find it.”
“And you won't be too hard on him?”
“I'll be a father to him,” said Hamlin demurely, as he opened the door and stepped into the hall. But he hesitated a moment, and then turned, and gravely held out his hand. Peg took it timidly. He did not seem quite in earnest; and his black eyes, vainly questioned, indicated nothing. But he shook her hand warmly, and the next moment was gone.
He found the room with no difficulty. A faint cough from within, and a querulous protest, answered his knock. Mr. Hamlin entered without further ceremony. A sickening smell of drugs, a palpable flavor of stale dissipation, and the wasted figure of Jack Folinsbee, half-dressed, extended upon the bed, greeted him. Mr. Hamlin was for an instant startled. There were hollow circles round the sick man's eyes; there was palsy in his trembling limbs; there was dissolution in his feverish breath.
“What's up?” he asked huskily and nervously.
“I am, and I want YOU to get up too.”
“I can't, Jack. I'm regularly done up.” He reached his shaking hand towards a glass half-filled with suspicious, pungent-smelling liquid; but Mr. Hamlin stayed it.