“What do you want to do on a night like this?” Burgess asked, remembering the vow he had been forced to make, by this same man.
“Come help me save a man's life!” Bond urged.
“Look here, Saxon. You've got some wild notion out of a boot-legger's bottle. Straighten up now. It's an infamous thing in a college town like Lagonda Ledge, where neither a saloon nor a joint would be allowed, that some imp of Satan should forever be bringing you whisky. Who does it, anyhow?”
“I'm not drunk and haven't been for six months. Come on, for God's sake, and help me to save a life, maybe two lives, from the very man that's done the boot-leggin' and robbin' in this town for months and months.” Saxon's words were convincing enough.
“What can I do?” Burgess asked. “I'm not a policeman.”
“Come on! Come on!” Saxon urged, tugging at the professor's arm. “It 's a life, I tell you.”
Vincent yielded unwillingly, the night, the beating rain, the man who asked it of him, the purpose, his own unfitness—all holding him back. Before they had gone far, Bond Saxon suddenly exclaimed:
“Say, Professor, do you remember the night I asked you to take care of Dennie if anything should happen to me?”
“Do YOU remember it?” Burgess responded. “You didn't ask; you demanded.”
“I was drunk then. I'm sober now. Burgess, if anything should happen to me now, would you still be willing?” Bond Saxon asked in tense anxiety.