"Undoubtedly it is so," said Vox, and, seeing the man's perplexity, quickly added, in the most genial manner, "I am sorry it is so, for I should be glad to remember that I had served you. Possibly I may do so in the future."
The man hesitatingly began to withdraw. Near the door he stopped, and, glancing about the room, half to himself and half as an apology to Vox, said, "Perhaps I have dreamed it. But will you allow me to ask you a question? Do you ever sing Mazzini's 'Muleteers'?"
"Often," replied Vox. "This, you mean," and he struck up the first line. His visitor instantly joined him. Vox stopped as quickly.
"Good heavens!" he exclaimed. "There are not two voices in the world like that." Putting his hand on the man's shoulder, he peered into his face. He could not recall the features, for the dim light in Brady's Harbor and the general slouch of the fellow that night had not really allowed him to see his face fully. He imagined how this man might look with a week's beard on his chin, an untrimmed mustache covering his fine lips, and a dirty derby concealing his forehead.
"Are you that man?"
"I am; or, rather, I was that man. But I hope—thanks to God and you—I am a very different man to-day. I came to tell you my gratitude for a kindness which I had come to doubt one man ever rendered to another, and to apologize for my bestial treatment of you. I was not a man then, Mr. Vox, only a beast; and, if you will believe me, I was not accountable, for I knew no better. I have the vaguest remembrance of that night, as of many another night. When I awoke at daylight in these rooms I had just sense enough to know that somebody had befriended me or played a trick on me, and to be ashamed to meet him, whoever he was. So I sneaked away. When I was sobered I couldn't recall the place. But the 'Muleteers' rang in my ears, and your voice, every note, the tone and quality. I had heard you sing elsewhere, and knew that but one voice, that of Vox, could have sung in that way. And now it has taken a month for me to get up manliness enough to come and do the decent thing."
"Don't talk in that way," said Vox, coloring as if he were receiving abuse instead of praise. "I did nothing that any man would not do for another. A man would be inhuman, a mere brute, not to—"
Then he thought of what he had lately said to the doctor about buzzards and benevolent slummers, and he felt like a hypocrite again.
"But don't talk about the past. Let it go. Isn't there something I can do for you now?" glancing at the man's threadbare coat.
"Yes, there is one favor I would like very much to have you do me. I have had a hard struggle with myself these few weeks. I resolved that I would not drink again. I have kept my purpose, but it has been like being tied to a wild beast in a cage. More than once I have started out for a drink, but have come back without it. It is hard to feel that you are all alone in the fight, that nobody knows of it. It's like making that cane stand by itself."