"And you'll not touch another drop to-night?" said Dodge, as they crossed over to the line of taxi-cabs.
George halted. "Say, what's on your mind, Simmy? Are you afraid I'll go off my nut and create a scene,—perhaps mop up the sidewalk with some one like Percy Wintermill or—well, any one of those nuts in there? That the idea you've got? Well, let me set you right, my boy. If I ever do anything like that it will not be with Lutie as the excuse. I'll not drag her name into it. Mind you, I'm not saying I'll never smash some one's head, but—"
"I didn't mean that, at all," said Simmy.
"And you needn't preach temperance to me," went on George. "I know that liquor isn't good for me. I hate the stuff, as a matter of fact. I know what it does to a man who has been an athlete. It gets him quicker than it gets any one else. But the liquor makes me forget that I'm no good. It makes me think I'm the biggest, bravest and best man in the world, and God knows I'm not. When I get enough of the stuff inside of me, I imagine that I'm good enough for Lutie. It's the only joy I have, this thinking that I'm as decent as anybody, and the only time I think I'm decent is when I'm so damned drunk that I don't know anything at all. Tell him to take me to Meikelham's hotel. Good night. You're all right, Simmy."
"To Meikelham's? I want you to go home, George."
"Well, that's home for me at present. Rotten place, believe me, but it's the best I can get for a dollar a day," grated George.
"I thought you were living with your mother?"
"No. Kicked out. That was six weeks ago. Couldn't stand seeing me around. I don't blame her, either. But that's none of your business, Simmy, so don't say another word."
"It's pretty rough, that's all."
"On me—or her?"