CHAPTER XXVI
NEMESIS
The place which Bassett had entered was a squalid little enclosure, eight or nine feet square, with the floor of the slaughter-house for a roof, rough slabs for walls, and the earth of the river bank for a floor. A rude fireplace of loose bricks had been built in one corner, the smoke from which was conducted up through a stove-pipe into the empty slaughter-house above. A little pile of coal, stolen from a near-by coalyard, occupied one corner, and a dirty bed, formed by some boards thrown across two boxes, another. Three boxes took the place of chairs and table, and another box nailed against the wall, served as a cupboard. The floor was littered with empty cans and whiskey bottles and scraps of refuse, and was slippery and slimy with dampness from the river.
Hummel placed the candle on one of the boxes and then turned to his visitor, his face more loathsome than ever. Face, hands and clothing were caked with dirt. His hands were trembling as though with palsy, and it was evident that he was on the verge of delirium tremens.
Without waiting for him to speak, Bassett, seeing his condition at a glance, drew from his pocket one of the bottles he had just purchased, and held it out to him.
Hummel, with a low exclamation of relief and joy, seized it, knocked off the head, and snatching up a dirty tumbler, filled it from the bottle and drained the last drop. Then he set bottle and glass down beside him with a sigh of satisfaction.
“That’s better,” he said. “You ain’t been treatin’ me right, Rafe. You oughtn’t to let me run out.”
“Run out!” Bassett repeated. “Good Lord! I’ll have to start a distillery t’ keep you from runnin’ out! I never see a man who could swill whiskey like you kin—a gallon a day ain’t nothin’! Why, you’re a reg’lar tank, with no bottom, at that!”
Hummel glared at him evilly, then poured out another glass full of the liquor and swallowed it.
“What’s that to you?” he demanded. “You know what the bargain was—an’ I’m ready to do my part whenever you say the word.”