“A-a-a-a-h!” said the Author, with dilated eyes.
“A-a-a-a-h!” said the stoker, in hopeless distress.
“But you aren’t——!”
“I know—I know I’m not. I know…. I’m a devil. A poor, lost, homeless devil.”
And suddenly, with a gesture of indescribable despair, the apparent stoker buried his face in his hands and burst into tears.
“Only man who’s ever been decently kind to me,” he sobbed. “And now—you’ll chuck me out again into the beastly wet and cold…. Beautiful fire…. Nice drink…. Almost homelike…. Just to torment me…. Boo-ooh!”
And let it be recorded to the credit of our little Author, that he did overcome his momentary horror, that he did go quickly round the table, and that he patted that dirty stoker’s shoulder.
“There!” he said. “There! Don’t mind my rudeness. Have another nice drink. Have a hell of a drink. I won’t turn you out if you’re unhappy—on a day like this. Have just a mouthful of pepper, man, and pull yourself together.”
And suddenly the poor devil caught hold of his arm. “Nobody good to me,” he sobbed. “Nobody good to me.” And his tears ran down over the Author’s plump little hand—scalding tears.