“Two people? There’s you, but don’t count me in on it. This little boy isn’t very fond of himself.”
“There’s me and there’s Glory.”
“Glory!” Ocky Waffles smiled grimly. Then he seemed ashamed of himself and repeated in an incredulous whisper, “Glory!”
“She cares more than I do,” Peter said. “She and I and you, all working together—do you understand?—she and I and you are going to make you well. We’re going to show everybody that you’re a strong, good man; and we’re going to work in secret until we can prove it.”
“A strong, good man!” The subject of this wonderful experiment looked down at himself contemptuously. “A strong, good man, I think you said. Likely, isn’t it? I’ve started by getting drunk.”
With sudden loathing and concentrated will power he swept the glass of whisky from him. It fell to the floor with a crash. He had become sober and rose to his feet solemnly. “Not a strong, good man. I could have been once. I’m a jail-bird. I’ve got my memories. My memories!—Good God, I wouldn’t tell you! You’re young. I can only try to be decent now, if that’s enough. And—and I’d like to try, Peter, if you’ll help me.”
As they drove back to Topbury the fumes of the drink overcame him. He fell asleep with his head rolling against Peter’s shoulder. Even in his sleep he seemed to remember his shame, and how he must keep it hidden from the world. His hand kept traveling to his hat, when a jerk of the cab threatened to remove it.
What to do with him! As the night fled by him Peter planned. No one but Peter would have thought out a plan so humanely idiotic. The silver moonlight fell between clumped trees and flooded all the meadows. Houses became more frequent. Above the trotting of the horse the grumble of traffic was heard. They were descending High-gate Hill; Peter put his arm about his companion to prevent his slipping forward. He stirred and muttered, “Poor old Ocky! Too bad! Too bad, going and getting drunk! Just out of prison and all that.”
Peter bit his lips and drew his brows together. Life—how strange it was! How slender, and fierce, and pantherlike and cruel! And yet how beautiful at times and splendid! Who could foresee anything? Last night he and the same moon had gazed on romance—to-night on disillusion. At the bottom of the hill lay London, like an immense quarry, tunneled, lamplit, treacherous, industrious, carved out of the precipice of darkness. It seemed a clay modeling of a more huge world, placed there for his inspection. Down there this man at his side had been crushed; they had cast him out. They had told him, “If you won’t come to Heaven, then you’ll have to go to——” Well, he’d been to hell, and now they’d got to take him back. In his heart Peter dared them to refuse him.
He spoke to the cabby and gave him an address. The man complained of the lateness of the hour. A reward persuaded him.