“I don’t know. Why should I?” Miner went on with his letter, having evidently interrupted himself in the midst of a sentence.
Ralston wished something would happen. He felt suddenly inclined to throw something at Miner, who generally amused him when he talked, but was clearly very busy, and went on writing as though his cheerful little life depended on it. But it was not probable that anything should happen just at that hour. There were three or four other men in different parts of the big room, writing or reading letters. There were doubtless a few others somewhere in the house, playing cards or drinking a quiet afternoon cocktail. It was a big club, having many rooms. But Ralston did not feel inclined to play poker, and he wished not to drink, if he could help it, and Miner went on writing, so he stayed where he was, and brooded over his annoyances. Suddenly Miner’s pen ceased with a scratch and a dash, audible all over the room, and he began to fold his letter.
“Come and have a drink, Jack!” he called out to Ralston, as he took up an envelope. “I’ve earned it, if you haven’t.”
“I don’t want to drink,” answered Ralston, gloomily, and, out of pure contrariety, he took up his paper again.
Miner looked long and steadily at him, closed his letter, put it into his pocket and crossed the room.
“I say, Jack,” he said, in an absurdly solemn tone, “are you ill, old man?”
“Ill? No. Why? Never was better in my life. Don’t be an idiot, Frank.” And he kept his paper at the level of his eyes.
“There’s something wrong, anyhow,” said Miner, thoughtfully. “Never knew you to refuse to drink before. I’ll be damned, you know!”
“I haven’t a doubt of it, my dear fellow. I always told you so.”
“For a gentle and unassuming manner, I think you take the cake, Jack,” answered Miner, without a smile. “What on earth is the matter with you? Let me see—you’ve either lost money, or you’re in love, or your liver’s out of order, or all three, and if that’s it, I pity you.”