He rolled back the collar of his slicker coat and shook the raindrops from the brim of his hat.
“Take off your coat,” I said hospitably, “and come up to the fire.”
He thanked me, favored me with a patronizing glance from his full-lidded light eyes, and stood rocking back and forth on the bearskin rug before the fire, rubbing his hands.
“I shall have to hurry on to Roselake if I am to get there to-night. Perhaps you will show me the trail, my man.”
I assured him that I would direct him, then realizing that the man was chilled through, I threw a fresh log on the fire, and going to a cupboard in the chimney-corner, took down a bottle and a small glass and placed them on the table.
“Have a drink,” I said, “it will save you from a bad cold on a night like this.”
“Thanks. Don’t mind if I do.” He filled his glass, and as he did so his glance fell on the book I had been reading. His manner changed. “‘Tacitus’! Rather grim reading for a wild night like this.” He turned a page unsteadily, and followed a line with his finger. “Mm! Nero, the fiddler—it’s ghastly reading—bestial, rather. Cramming for anything?”
“No,” I replied.
“Take something lighter—‘Abbe Constantine,’ ‘Hyperion,’ ‘The Snow Man.’”
His voice was thick; and as he stood resting his hand on a chair back, he lurched slightly.