Roberts flung himself into the old hack, muttering, as he slammed the door: "Hear him! Just hear him!" He burst into a laugh that ended in a groan. "Oh!" he continued, "I wonder if God, in some mighty shuffle of His worlds, has dropped this one out of His hands entirely! For surely nothing higher, nothing wiser than blind fate or a malicious devil can be guiding the affairs of man!"
He threw off his cap and held his head hard between his bony, long hands, and broke out again: "That gentle, helpless old fool, with his unmistakably aristocratic elbows nearly out of his sleeves, is the natural protector of two lovely daughters! How the devil will laugh when he takes note of the situation! If so weak a creature was to be trusted with daughters at all, they should for their own sakes have been plain girls, whose homeliness would have acted as a prohibitory tariff on folly of any kind! Again, the circling arms of some mothers would be as towers of strength for the guarding of innocent beauty; but not this mother—this elegant 'has been,' who twists her memories of past wealth and power into thongs to lash her friends and family with! And, by Jove, the old rattle can carry herself well! She's been a fine-looking woman in her day—a fact she will never forget in this world, probably not in the next! But selfish? Lord! I'll bet her time is principally given to pulling out for her own use any plum of comfort to be found in their economical family pie! But they see nothing amiss! It's 'this chair for mamma!' One places a stool for her feet, and another brings a cushion for her back, and papa throws a scarf about her shoulders and lowers the light to suit her eyes; and when they have all made her quite comfortable, she rewards them with sighs and moans and tales of her former glory. But for family love commend me to this Lawton set. I never saw anything so beautiful in my life as the palpitating pride of that old gentleman in his daughters and their protecting love for him! And there it is. The natural position of father and child is reversed, and that lovely creature, Sybil, with father and mother both living, is as absolutely unprotected as any orphan on earth! Lord! How I wish I had a drink of whiskey! My nerves will jump clear through my skin before I get to the city! I wonder what Stewart would say if he knew I'd been travelling without a flask? Wouldn't believe it, I suppose. Gad! I've had heaven and hell pretty thoroughly well mixed together these last few weeks. Thrall gave me a bit of heaven when he sent me to act as sheep-dog for this girl, and I ordered up a portion from the other place when I doomed myself to sobriety, out of consideration for her trust in me! Not a drop of anything to be had either at this infernal, suicidal station, and I've had nothing since Albany! Well, I must grin and bear it! I wish I hadn't to see Thrall to-night, and yet I want to know just what he's up to. Of course I'm dead sure he's going to coach this ambitious child for Juliet, but maybe he'll pass her over to old mother Mordaunt. She's clever and knows her business. Perhaps, too, he means to put young Fitzallen up for Romeo, and play Mercutio himself? May be! Ah, bah! May-bees don't fly at this time of year. I'd bet my bottom dollar—a coin always within easy reach—that he will coach her himself—yes, and play Romeo, too! But as I live by bread, Stewart, my boy, there must be no Bessie in this case, or something will happen—something that would have happened five years ago had I not been as completely under the spell of your fascination as ever she was, poor little maid! Hello, here we are, and the train coming, thank the Lord!"
Roberts hurried through the little waiting-room, past the small office, from which came the curt, short "tick-tick tack" that is as the voice of the ever-imperative telegraph wire, crossed the open space, tripping over the line of rails in the darkness, clambered up the steps, and entered the purgatorial heat of the car, made nauseating by the odor of banana and stale orange-peel, and dropped into a seat by the side of a sleeping man, only to spring up again when suddenly aware that he had sat upon a bottle.
The movement aroused the sleeper, who, with his hat on the back of his head and a lock of hair clinging damply to his forehead, muttered apologies as he gathered up his overcoat out of the way. Having felt carefully in one of its outer pockets, he turned to Roberts with that loose smile of world-embracing geniality peculiar to the good-natured man who is "three sheets in the wind," and thickly remarked: "I's all right! Best kind of glass! I've sat on that flask dozen times myself 'nd never cracked it!" His head wobbled a moment, then he added, confidentially: "Soon's I can think—w-where in thunder I put cup—w-we'll have a drink together—like little men, eh? Why h-here it is, r-right in other pocket! Been a b-bear it might 'a' tore my g-gizzard out! Join me?"
Jim Roberts glanced a moment down the brilliantly lighted, well-filled car, then clenched his hands and, drawing a long, almost sobbing breath—declined.
"W-what's—w-what's reason you won't join me?" demanded the stranger, indignantly, yet showing at the same time a disposition to weep. "W-what have I done—say, now, w-what have I done? Slept with my m-mouth open, I s'pose? Slept out loud, too—very likely? But w-what of that? It isn't pretty, of course—but's no crime—eh?" He brought forth the metal cup and carefully wiped it out with a stubby forefinger, while he tearfully added that "the very dogs in the streets'd bark at him when they knew a gentleman had refused to drink with him!"
And Roberts, with set jaws and feet twisting together, tried to control the leaping muscles and nerves that seemed to be crying out with a thousand gasping mouths for liquor! liquor! The tears of self-inflicted disappointment were stinging beneath his lids when there came to his ears, with infernal power to charm, the delicious "blub-blub-blub" of whiskey poured from a full bottle. He gave a gasp. In an instant his left hand held his hat before his face, his right hand grasped the cup and poured the contents straight and raw down his aching throat. The drink was followed by that convulsive shudder, so familiar to most drunkards. Heart shock someone has called it; but almost before he had returned the cup to its rejoicing owner a delicious warmth and comfort was stealing over him, a sense of well-being made him tolerant even of the disjointed conversation of his chance acquaintance.
He reported presently at the private office of Manager Thrall, who received him eagerly and greeted him with unusual heartiness. The interview was long and confidential—very. When Jim Roberts finally reached his own room he had been drinking heavily and had been tramping the streets for hours. He was at his very worst. Flinging off only his hat and coat, he cast himself across the bed, and rolling his head face downward on his folded arms, he groaned: "I can't do anything! I'm less than a fly on the wheel! He's all right now—he means well—he honestly does! But, oh! good God! don't I know the man better than he knows himself! Don't I know that Stewart Thrall is never more dangerous than when he means well?" and the poor wretch lay there and grovelled in helpless, drunken misery.