“It’s about time you were going home, Harry,” he said. “Get your overcoat, and I’ll walk up with you.”
The obscene bird across the table took Brant’s measure in a swift glance, and, scenting trouble, sought to make his peace with the newcomer.
“We were just having a little game for pastime, you understand—low man pays for the dr—for the cigars,” he explained.
Brant ignored the peaceful overture and the maker of it, and asked Antrim what he had done with his coat.
“It’s all right about the coat,” replied the foolish one, making a pitiful effort to keep the consonants in their proper places. “Man don’t need any overcoat in summer time. Le’s go home.”
Brant saw that the man across the table wore an overcoat, and that he was sitting upon another.
“I’ll trouble you to let me have my friend’s coat,” he said mildly, but the cold gray eyes narrowed and shot a look with the words that made the request a demand.
“Oh, certainly, if he is a friend of yours”—the rook had never laid eyes on Brant before. “But it wasn’t no brace game; I win it fair enough.”
Brant helped Antrim to his feet and into his coat, after which he walked him home with no word of inquiry or reproach. Truly, the foolish one was far enough beyond the reach of admonition, but he was also sane enough to appreciate the value of the silence which is golden, and he made an effort to say as much when Brant led him into his room and lighted the gas.
“Much obliged, George, for what you haven’t said.” He steadied himself with his hands on the table and tried to catch Brant’s eye: “’Nother fellow would’ve preached, and a sermon isn’t jush what I need.”