He looked also at the bowl of soup.
He had the strength to reflect—a meal is a meal. But after that meal, what? Penniless, broken in health, friendless, a failure—why prolong it for another twenty-four hours? A meal would prolong it, but that was all a meal would do—and after that would come the suffering and the despair and the end to be faced all over again.
Was he man enough to take the pistol and do it now?
Or did true manhood lie the other way? Was he man enough to drink the soup, and dare to live and hope?
Just then the cockroach, which had climbed into the window and upon the washstand, made for the bowl of soup.
“Here!” cried Mr. Gooley, grabbing the bowl in both hands, “Old Man Hammil! Get away from that soup!”
And the bowl being in his hands, he drank.
“What do you mean by Old Man Hammil?”
It was Mrs. Hinkley who spoke. She stood again in the doorway, with a letter in her hands and a look of wonder on her face.
Mr. Gooley set down the soup bowl. By an effort of the will he had only drunk half the liquid. He had heard somewhere that those who are suffering from starvation had better go slow at first when they get hold of food again. And he already felt better, warmed and resurrected, from the first gulp.