He swayed as if about to fall full length, gesturing blindly before his face as if to sweep away the thought, while his son ran towards him.
“Father, you’re sick,” Steele exclaimed, putting an arm about the other. And, in truth, the elder man seemed fainting, ready to collapse. “Come, let me help you in so you can lie down. I must bring a doctor.”
Steele almost carried him to the bed. On it his father sank, remaining with closed eyes and scarcely breathing.
“No doctor; bring no doctor,” he said painfully, at last. “I feel––I feel as if dying.”
“I must bring a doctor. And I have a flask of whiskey; let me pour you a little to revive your heart.”
The change the words wrought from passivity to action was startling. The elder Weir arose suddenly on elbow, glaring fiercely.
“Whiskey, never! It brought me to this, it damned my life. If it had not been for whiskey–––” Without finishing the words he fell back on the bed.
The loathing, the hatred, the utter horror of his exclamation, banished from his son’s mind further thought of using this stimulant.
“But the doctor?” he inquired, gently.