"You do not need it, and you must not take it. Come, come, Mr. Lee; I am your friend, and you know it. My head is clearer than yours just now. Trust to me. Let me have this stuff."
"On condishun you'll give it back after show."
"We'll talk about that then. No time to talk now. I must go on again in a minute. Brace up. You are not very steady on your feet. The audience will tumble to the fact that you have been taking something, and I'll be held responsible for giving such a show. They will blame me."
That appealed to the man more than anything else Frank could have said.
"No business to blame you," said the old man, puckering his lip. "You're all ri'; everybody elsh all wrong. I shtick by you, Mr. Merriwell. You gen'leman—'swhat you are! No business to be 'soshyating with lot of bum hamfatters. They ain't 'n your class. Anybody can shee that."
"Then it's all right, Mr. Lee; I'll take care of this whisky."
"Just gimme one more little drop now," pleaded the old man. "You broke me ri' off in middle of drink. Didn't get 'nough to wet my throat. Loshin' my voice. Need something to clear it up."
He was talking huskily, but Frank knew better than to let him get his hands on the bottle again.
"You can show what you are good for by bracing without taking another drink, Mr. Lee," said Frank.
"Not good for anything."