“What did I tell you?” sneered Cummings. “I’m taking him to a hotel. He’ll be all right in a few hours.”
“I am glad he has a friend to take care of him,” declared the dapper little aviator, and he hurried on, shaking his head over the intemperance which he had been led by Cummings to believe was the cause of Jack’s plight.
“That’s another spoke in your wheel, my lad,” muttered Cummings as he got in beside the now senseless youth. “I don’t know who your friend is, but he won’t think much of you after this, if, indeed, he ever sees you again.”
He leaned forward and gave a direction to the driver.
“Drive out along the Castle Road,” he said, mentioning an unfrequented road that led to the outskirts of Kingston.
The darky nodded. All these queer proceedings were none of his business. Their road led through the negro quarter of the town and they passed hardly a white face. Such negroes as they encountered merely stared stolidly at the white-faced, reeling youth seated at Cummings’ side.
By and by the houses began to thin out. Then, in the distance, down the dusty road, they came in view of an automobile halted at the roadside.
“Stop at that car,” ordered Cummings.
“At dat mobolbubbul?” asked the black.
“That’s what I said, you inky-faced idiot,” snapped Cummings.