"I hope," he said thoughtfully, "that the man who started that lie about drink making a fellow forget died the death of a dog. He deserved to, anyway, because it's one of the cruellest practical jokes ever perpetrated on the human race. I know, because I've tried it on, hard—and waked up sick to my marrow to remember what a disgusting ass I'd made of myself for all to behold." He stopped at Whitaker's side and dropped a hand on his shoulder. "Hugh," he said, "you're one of the best. Don't...."
Whatever he had meant to say, he left unfinished because of the return of the page with his Scotch; but he had said enough to let Whitaker understand that he knew about the Carstairs affair.
"That's all right," said Whitaker; "I'm not going to make a damn' fool of myself, but I am in a pretty bad way. Boy—"
"Hold on!" Peter interrupted. "You're not going to order another? What you've had is enough to galvanize a corpse."
"Barring the negligible difference of a few minutes or months, that's me," returned Whitaker. "But never mind, boy—run along."
"I'd like to know what you mean by that," Peter remarked, obviously worried.
"I mean that I'm practically a dead man—so near it that it makes no difference."
"The devil you say! What's the matter with you?"
"Ask Greyerson. I can't remember the name—it's too long—and I couldn't pronounce it if I did."
Peter's eyes narrowed. "What foolishness has Greyerson been putting into your head?" he demanded. "I've a good mind to go punch his—"