“Not the pub, people’d wonder to see me there.”
Mr. Grace was offended; no one ever wondered to see him there. “Not respeckable enough! That’s it, is h’it. Ah well, you take my advice. You’re young. If yer want to live ter be my age, pickle yer guts. Yer’ll ‘ave a darter one day, don’t yer worry. Gawd pity a man wiv a disrespekful hussy—— Suppose yer think I’m drunk?”
The situation required tact. “Not drunk, Mr. Grace; you don’t run your words together. You’re just Christmasy, I expect.”
Mr. Grace threw a rug over his horse’s back and fetched out the nose-bag. When this was done, he addressed Peter solemnly, steadying himself against the shafts. “I am drunk. Yer know I’m drunk. I know I’m drunk. Old Cat’s Meat knows I’m drunk. Where’s the good o’ argify-ing and tellin’ lies abart it? Let’s settle the point at once. I’m damn well drunk and I’m goin’ ter be drunker.”
The minutes were flying; there was no more time to fence. “Mr. Grace, I want you to help me. There’s no one else in the world I would ask.”
Mr. Grace cocked his eye at Peter, a blind kind of eye like an oyster on the half-shell.
“‘Elp! ‘Elp ‘oo? ‘Elp wot? Me ‘elp! I need ‘elp me-self; I kin ‘ardly stand up.”
“Oh please, not so loud! I’m serious. Something dreadful’s happening and you’re my friend—— You are my friend, aren’t you?”
Mr. Grace clapped his heavy paw on Peter’s shoulder. “S’long h’as Gawd gives me breaf.”
“Then let’s sit in the cab, so no one will see us and I’ll tell you.”