He slouched out with his head bent.
A moment later Percival remembered his last words, also his reference to Blythe. He was seized with fear for what he might do in his despair. Uncle Peter would act quickly if his mind had been made up.
He ran out into Wall Street, and hurried up to Broadway. A block off on that crowded thoroughfare he saw the tall figure of Uncle Peter turning into the door of a saloon. He might have bought poison. He ran the length of the block and turned in.
Uncle Peter stood at one end of the bar with a glass of creamy beer in front of him. At the moment Percival entered he was enclosing a large slab of Swiss cheese between two slices of rye bread.
He turned and faced Percival, looking from him to his sandwich with vacant eyes.
"I'm that wrought up and distressed, son, I hardly know what I'm doin'! Look at me now with this stuff in my hands."
"I just wanted to be sure you were all right," said Percival, greatly relieved.
"All right," the old man repeated. "All right? My God,—ruined! There's nothin' left to do now."
He looked absently at the sandwich, and bit a generous semicircle into it.
"I don't see how you can eat, Uncle Peter. It's so horrible!"