“It doesn't matter. Cut it out about the place. I'm going back in ten minutes.”
“You are! Not going to get to bed?”
“Don't know. I might snatch a nap now if you'd quit talking.”
Macauley closed his mouth. Presently he got up and stole out of the room. He was back again in a trice, a flask in one hand, a soda siphon in the other, and a small glass balanced on his thumb. When Burns, at the sound of a clock ticking somewhere, rubbed his eyes with his fists striking in and reluctantly opened them, Macauley spoke briskly:
“See here—I'm going to give you a bracer. I know your confounded notions, but they don't cut any figure when you need something to pull you together the way you do to-night.”
He started to measure out the amber liquid into the glass, but Burns put up a hand.
“Much obliged, but I don't want any.”
“You idiot—don't you know when to make an exception to your rule? I admit you've won out over the other fellows just by keeping a steady hand, but you're dead as a dog for rest to-night and you need a stiff one, if I'm any judge.”
“You're not—for me.” Burns sat up. “O Heavens, man, if I were going to break my rule at all it wouldn't be for a drink of anything. It would be for a stab in the arm with something that beats your stuff all out for stimulating the fatigue out of a fellow and making him feel like working till he drops.”
“Why don't you have it then?” asked Macauley curiously. “I should think if ever a used-up chap were justified in—”