"Too much brains, too much up here." Placing his hand on his heart, he went on: "Too little down here. Once he gets an idea, he never lets it go, he holds on. Obstinate. One idea—stick to it. Gee, but I've made a mess of things, haven't I?"
Underwood looked at him with contempt.
"You've made a mess of your life," he said bitterly, "yet you've had some measure of happiness. You, at least, married the woman you love. Drunken beast as you are, I envy you. The woman I wanted married some one else, damn her!"
Howard was so drowsy from the effects of the whiskey that he was almost asleep. As he lay back on the sofa, he gurgled:
"Say, old man; I didn't come here to listen to hard-luck stories. I came to tell one."
In maudlin fashion he began to sing, Oh, listen to my tale of woe, while Underwood sat glaring at him, wondering how he could put him out.
As he reached the last verse his head began to nod. The words came thickly from his lips and he sank sleepily back among the soft divan pillows.
Just at that moment the telephone bell rang. Underwood quickly picked up the receiver.
"Who's that?" he asked. As he heard the answer his face lit up and he replied eagerly: "Mrs. Jeffries—yes. I'll come down. No, tell her to come up."
Hanging up the receiver, he hastily went over to the divan and shook Howard.