On the ensuing morning, Carnes and I enacted the "quarrel scene," as planned by him the previous night.
A more aggravated case of drunkenness than that presented by Carnes, a little before noon, could not well be imagined. He was a marvel of reeling stupidity, offensive hiccoughs, and maudlin insolence.
Quite a number of people were lounging about the office when Carnes staggered in, thus giving me my cue to commence. Among the rest were Dimber Joe and Blake Simpson. Our scene went off with considerable eclat; and, having paid Carnes at the office desk, with a magnificent disregard for expense, I turned to leave the room, looking back over my shoulder, to say with my grandest air:
"If you think yourself sufficiently sober, you may come up-stairs and pack your things. The sooner you, and all that belongs to you, are out of my sight, the better I shall be pleased."
I had been in my room less than half an hour, when I heard Carnes come stumbling noisily through the passage.
When he was fairly within the room, he straightened himself suddenly, and uttered a sound midway between a laugh and a chuckle.
"Old man," he said, coming slowly toward me, "I don't think I'll take the down train."
"Why not?"