“Don’ wan’ drink with you. Goin’ with m’ frien’s.”
A stubborn, vicious look had come into Jack’s face, a look that Clifford knew meant trouble. “Just one little old drink, Jack, and then you can go with your friends.”
Jack regarded Clifford’s impeding figure, and grinned cunningly. “All ri’—jus’ one drink.”
“He’s already had too damned much,” growled the elder Morton.
Clifford gave the father an imperative, knowing look, pushed Jack down into his chair, and pressed a button. “Send Monsieur Le Bain,” he said to the answering waiter; and to Jack: “I’m going to order the drinks, Jack, and we’re going to switch to high-balls—and we’re going to see if this dump has some Scotch that’s really Scotch.”
As Le Bain appeared, Clifford stepped quickly to the door, spoke in a low voice, and returned to the table. Presently Le Bain himself entered with three glasses which he set down in careful order before the men, and then withdrew.
“Here’s how,” said Clifford, and sipped his glass. Jack tossed his down and rose unsteadily.
“Now, guess I’ll go find m’ frien’s,” he declared.
“Not yet, Jack,”—and Clifford pushed him again back into place. “There’s going to be one more round, and it’s on you. I gave Le Bain the order.”
Mr. Morton, not touching his glass, sharply watched the two. Jack grinned cunningly at Clifford; then his face became vacuous, heavy; and then he slumped forward, and head and shoulders lay inertly among the wine-glasses and the dishes of the interrupted supper.