All through the night and the early morning a summer northeaster had lashed the city streets; the pavements glistened with moisture; the hurrying rainclouds obscured the sun. But now, as the day advanced, the wind veered to the north, and presently appeared patches of blue sky, and a ray of sunshine, piercing its way through the curtains of the room, fell upon the face of the slumbering Mills, as he lay breathing heavily, mouth parted, and the mottled red and white of his cheeks bearing witness to the excesses of the past two weeks.
Presently, as the sunbeam reached the level of his eyes, he twitched and stirred uneasily, and finally awakening, sat bolt upright with a sound midway between a yawn and a groan, and extending his legs over the side of the bed, remained inert, supporting his aching head in his hands. Then, perceiving that Blagden still slept, he seized a pillow and flung it with such certain aim that his companion, thus rudely aroused, started up spasmodically from his couch and perceiving the cause for his awakening, scowled savagely, growled, "Oh, don't act like a damned kid," and tried to compose himself for further slumber. But the shock had been effectual, and at length, realizing the futility of the attempt, he assumed the same position occupied by Mills, and heavy-eyed and blinking, the pair sat gazing at each other across the room.
"Blagden," said Mills solemnly, "do you care to know my genuine, sincere opinion of life in general?"
Blagden grinned faintly. "If you feel the way I do," he answered, "I can guess it right now. But if it will cheer you up to get it off your mind, why go ahead."
Mills needed no further encouragement. "Life," he observed, "is a fake; an ugly, rotten fake. There's no fun in it; there's no good in it; there's no pleasure; there's no satisfaction. It's dust and ashes, and I'm tired and sick of it."
Blagden's smile broadened. "Well, of all the ingratitude," he rejoined. "When we made our first clean-up, a fortnight ago, you told me life was the most splendid, gorgeous, wonderful thing imaginable. If things had gone against us since then, you might complain, but they haven't; everything that could come our way has come our way. The system is perfect; where we had six thousand dollars we have fifteen thousand now; and in a year we'll have to hire a special safety deposit vault. And in the meantime think of the pace we've set. Have we been temperance advocates, preachers of the Gospel, haters of women? The answer is; No, decidedly and emphatically, No. It has been some fortnight; some happy little fortnight, Tubby, my boy."
Mills groaned. "That's just the trouble," he complained. "All my life, I've looked forward to the time when I could travel as fast as I wanted to, without caring a hang for the expense. And now that I've done it, what a mess it's been. I don't want to eat or drink again as long as I live, and as for women--" he shuddered--"Good Lord, Blagden, I can't bear the thought of them. Lumps of flesh, with wide-open mouths, crying 'Give, give, give!' Beasts, that's all they are; ugly, crawling beasts; to the deuce with the whole of them."
He passed a shaking hand across his eyes, trying to brush away the film of cobweb which hung there. But his hand passed through it, and the film remained.
Blagden looked at him curiously. "Better pull up a bit, Tubby," he admonished. "You don't want a session with the D. Ts. I know just how you feel, but wait till you've had a bath and a bracer, and you'll be all right again. In fact, you've got to be all right again; this is the night we're going out to Danforth's for a time with those girls from the south. Had you forgotten?"
"By Jove, I had," Mills acknowledged. But at the thought of Danforth and the pictures he had shown them, the embers of gorged and glutted lust began to glow again. "Well," he said more cheerfully, "this will be a bit different from the usual thing. Besides that, we'll be in the country. What a damnable place the city is. You know, Blagden," he went on confidentially, gazing straight before him, "sometimes lately I catch myself doing something I've never done before; I keep thinking back to when I was a kid. I suppose that's a sign I'm growing old. Why, darn it all, I can remember the room I used to have, and the little white bed, and the long summer nights with the crickets singing away outside in the moonlight, and there I'd lie awake, kind of wondering what it was all about, anyway, and thinking how fine it would be to grow up to be a man. And now--"