“I say, Frank,” he said at last, “don’t talk about Jack’s drinking—there’s a good fellow. He’ll get over it all right, some day.”
“People do talk about it a good deal,” answered Miner. “I don’t think I’m worse than other people, and I’ll try to talk less. But it’s been pretty bad, lately. The trouble is, you can’t tell just how far gone he is. He has a strong head—up to a certain point, and then he’s a fiend, all at once. And he’s always quarrelsome, even when he’s sober, so that’s no sign.”
“Poor chap! He inherits it to some extent. His father could drink more than most men, and generally did.”
“Yes. I met a man the other day—a fellow in the Navy—who told me they had no end of stories of the old Admiral. But no one ever saw him the worse for it.”
“That’s true enough. But no nerves will last through two generations of whiskey.”
“I suppose not.” Miner paused. “You see,” he continued, presently, “he could have left his card in half the time he’s been in there. Come in. We shall find him at the bar.”
“No,” said Bright. “I won’t spy on him. I shouldn’t like it myself.”
“And he says he has no friends!” exclaimed Miner, not without admiration.
“Oh, that’s only his way when he’s cross. Not that his friends are of any use to him. He’ll have to work out his own salvation alone—or his own damnation, poor devil!”
Before Miner made any answer, Ralston came out again. His face looked drawn and weary and there were dark shadows under his eyes. He stood still a moment on the threshold of the door, looked deliberately to the left, towards Broadway, then to the right, along the street, and at last at his friends. Then he slowly lighted a cigarette, brushed a tiny particle of ash from the sleeve of his rough black coat and came out upon the pavement, with a quick, decided step.