“That’s what a fellow wants, eh? When he grows up,” said Joe with a good-humored, and infinitely suggestive grin.
Wilfred stiffened his face; but in spite of himself, his breast warmed a little towards Joe. There was a sort of infernal bond between them. Wilfred was a profligate too—that is, he desired to be.
The bottle and glasses were brought, each glass with a little silver fountain placed on top, through which the water dripped on the sugar, alternately side and side, with a fairy tinkle. Wilfred watched the operation fascinated. He tingled with pleasure at the thought of drinking the dangerous stuff. As the sugared water mingled with it, the green liquor mantled and pearled.
“A whole lot has happened since those days,” Joe went on. “I’ve ceased to be a pimp, and have become a stockjobber. It’s considered more respectable, I understand. Anyhow, it’s more profitable. Already I’m rich, but not as rich as I shall be. Wall street is easy picking for me. I’ll tell you why. The fellows down there have got the name of being the smartest on earth, and they know it, and that makes them careless, see? They’re so accustomed to doing others, they forget that they may be done, in their turn. Another thing; Wall street has got a bad name, and they’re always scared of what people will say. They want to be both pirates and pillars of the church. I got an advantage over them, because I don’t give a damn what anybody says, as long as I can keep out of jail. What was I? Just a kid out of the East Side gutters. I had nothing to lose. I’m a realist, I am. I think things through.
“Besides, I got a sort of gift of reading men. I don’t know how it is, but when I’m talkin’ to a man, I always seem to know the bad things he’s thinking about, and is afraid to let on. Some men look good, and some look bad; but it don’t matter how good a man looks, you can depend upon it, he’s got a secret badness in him, that he nurses. Everybody likes me because I’m so damn natural. Even the men I get the best of, come round. Morality is the curse of this country. Everybody is sick of it, really. That’s why an out and out bad actor like me becomes a sort of hero to everybody. You would never believe the things that respectable men tell me when they get a drink or two in them. It’s morality that perverts them. They feel they can let themselves go with me, because I got no morals. . . .”
Wilfred thought with a kind of enthusiasm: This is great stuff! I must remember it. He asked, shyly: “How about women?”
“Oh, women,” said Joe carelessly, “they’re a different proposition. I only know one thing about women, and that’s all that concerns me. . . . There’s no money to be made out of women. . . . I can tell you, though, women are a damn sight more natural than men.”
Wilfred, afire with curiosity, had not sufficient effrontery to question him further.
Joe held his glass up to the light. “I’m crazy about this green stuff! My favorite poison! Makes your blood sting as it runs. Makes you feel like a king! I don’t dare drink it when I got business on hand. Might do something reckless like telling a millionaire the truth.”
Wilfred was disappointed with his first taste of absinthe. It was as mild and insipid as anise-seed drops. He had drunk half his glass, and it had had no effect whatever. All at once, he realized that he was enjoying its effect, without his having been aware of its coming on. His heart was lifted up. All his faculties were sharpened. He found himself able to look Joe in the face. Oh, wonder-working spirit! I shall drink absinthe every Saturday afternoon, he resolved.