“Why?”
“The trouble with you intelligent men is that you have no sense,” answered the little man. “He’s had another drink—four fingers it was, too—and he’s been badly shaken up, and he had the beginning of a ‘jag’ on before, and he’s going home in a rolling cab, which makes it worse. If he meets his mother, there’ll be a row. That’s all. Even when I was a boy it wasn’t good form to be drunk before dinner, and nobody drinks now—at least, not as they used to. Well—it’s none of my business.”
“It’s everybody’s business,” said Bright. “But a harder man to handle I don’t know. He’ll either come to grief or glory, or both together, one of these days. It’s not the quantity he takes—it’s the confounded irregularity of him. I’m going to the club—are you coming?”
“I may as well correct my proofs there as anywhere else. Pocket’s full of them.” Miner tapped his round little chest with an air of some importance.
“Proofs, eh? Something new?”
“I’ve worn them out, my boy. They’re incapable of returning me with thanks any more—until next time. I’ve worn them out, heel and toe,—right out.”
“Is it a book, Frank?”
“Not yet. But it’s going to be. This is the first—a series of essays, you know—this is the wedge, and I’ve got it in, and I’m going to drive it for all I’m worth, and when there are six or seven they’ll make a book, together with some other things—something in the same style—which have appeared before.”
“I’m very glad, old man. I congratulate you. Go in and win.”
“It’s an awful life, though,” said Frank Miner, growing suddenly grave.