The image of Cherry grew up—Cherry with her red mouth. God had made her, as well. He unclenched his hands and stood puzzled. God had made her, as well! The golden panes of the inn shone and winked at him; he retraced his steps.
The man still wore his hat, but——. Alcohol had changed him from a thing limp and hopeless into Ocky Waffles. As Peter entered he staggered to his feet with both hands held out.
“Why, if it isn’t the ha’penny marvel. God bless me, how he’s grown. Quite a man, Peter! Quite a man!” He put his lips against Peter’s ear. “Mustn’t tell anybody. They wouldn’t understand. Have to keep it on.” He pointed to his hat. “Been away for a rest cure—you and I know where. Had brain fever. Had to cut my hair. It isn’t pretty.” Then, in a lower voice, “Mustn’t tell anybody. You won’t split on me?”
For the first time Peter was delighted to find his uncle drunk. He assured him that he wouldn’t split on him.
“Shake hands, old son; it’s a compack. Cur’ous! Here’s all this great world and only I and you know about it. Makes me laugh. Our little joke, isn’t it?”
Peter took the whisky bottle from him. “You don’t want any more of that.”
The trembling hand groped after it; the weak mouth quivered. “Just to forget. Just to make me forget. Don’t be hard on poor old Ocky Waffles. Everyone’s been hard on Ocky Waffles.”
For a moment Peter wavered; then poured an inch more of liquid courage into the empty glass. “That’s the last for to-night; we’ve got to plan for your future.”
“My future!” Ocky Waffles twisted his unwaxed mustaches and spread his arms across the table. “My future! Oh, yes. I’ve got a great future.”
Peter tapped him on the hand. “Not a great future; but a future. There are two people who care for you. That’s something.”