Harvey's answer was a practical one—he made for the door and disappeared, Lansing close on his heels.
McGrew alternately cursed and pleaded with them long after they were out of earshot; and then, moved by drunken inspiration, started to clear up the room. He got as far as reaching for the empty bottles on the floor, and that act seemed to father a second inspiration—there were other bottles. He reeled to the table, picked up the one from which they had been drinking, stared at the Kid upon the floor, brushed the hair out of his eyes, and, throwing back his head, drank deeply.
"Jus'er steady myself—feel shaky," he mumbled.
He stared at the Kid again. The Kid was beginning to show signs of returning consciousness. McGrew, blinking, took another drink.
"Nosh dead, after all," said McGrew thickly. "Thank God, nosh dead, after all!"
Then drunken cunning came into his eyes. He slid the full bottle into his pocket, and, carrying the ether in his hand, stumbled upstairs, drank again, and hid them craftily, not beneath the mattress this time, but under the eaves where the flooring met and there was a loose plank.
When he stumbled downstairs again, the Kid was sitting in a chair, holding his swimming head in his hands.
"S'all right, Charlie," said McGrew inanely.
The Kid did not look at him; his eyes were fixed upon the table.
"Where are those bottles?" he demanded suspiciously.