“Maybe,” said the good old dog, “but I’ve seen many lads going Carty’s way. I’ll tell you what mister will do. He’ll give him a good fair showing, then if he doesn’t make good, he’ll kick him out.”
“But what about the women?” I said.
“The women,” exclaimed Gringo with suppressed rage, “I’m tired of this drink-martyr’s business. The men have all the fun, the women all the pain. Every time that young rapscallion comes out here, missis sneaks up to his room to feel his coat pockets, and search his suit-case, to find out if he’s brought any of the powerful, and if she finds it, she cries, and pours out half and puts water in, and if a caller comes, down she goes, smiling as if she hadn’t a trouble in the world. I’d like to chuck all the drunkards in New York Bay with a rock on their necks.”
“Come, come, Gringo,” I said, “that doesn’t sound like you. Can’t you think of a way to reform the poor wretches?”
“Nothing but shut off the liquor,” said Gringo.
I burst out laughing. “How you have changed, old fellow. You used to be for high license, drink in moderation, self-restraint, etc.”
“It doesn’t work with sap-heads,” said Gringo. “I’m for drowning now. Do you know what missis did—had that fellow put over her head.”
“You mean his bed-room—when he comes out to visit?”
“Yes—so she could listen for his step. When it’s steady, she is gay. When he stumbles, and pushes the furniture round, she is sad.”
“I shouldn’t think your master would have allowed that,” I said angrily. “It’s a shame for Mrs. Bonstone to be so bothered.”