“No y’ don’t, Ward, old man! Not slippy; not bit slippy.”
“He’s got a dinner engagement in town at seven and I’ve got a date myself,” said Irene. “I’ll take him home. The chauffeur will look after him. There’s no use letting him spoil the day for you and Grace. You came out in the runabout, didn’t you, Jerry? Jerry can walk over to the interurban when he’s ready to go and you two can take your time about going in. You can manage the runabout, can’t you, Ward?”
“That’s easy enough,” Trenton replied, frowning in his perplexity as he eyed Kemp, who had stumbled to a chair where he sat breathing heavily. “But I don’t like your going in alone with Tommy.”
Irene bent over Kemp and drew a phial from his pocket. She shook out a tablet and placed it in his mouth. The vigilant Japanese boy was ready with a glass of water.
“Strych-ni-ah,” explained Kemp with a drunken grin. “How you come think o’ that, Irene? First aid ’n all that sor’ thing. Givin’ me poison; thass wha’ she’s doin’. Forgot I had tha’ stuff in my pocket. Awfu’ funny. Doctor cut off whiskey and gimme rat poison. Mos’ singular. Mos’ incomree—in-com-pre-hens-ble.”
He lay back in his chair and threw out his legs, wagging his head as he laughed inordinately at his lingual difficulties. When Trenton tried to feel his pulse he good-naturedly resisted. He was perfectly all right; never felt better in his life, he declared.
The question of his immediate return to town was peremptorily settled by Irene, who rang for the car.
“His heart’s certainly doing queer things,” said Trenton. “It would be better for us all to go in.”
“Oh, he’ll come out of it. It’s nearly dark and I’ll open the car window and give him air. Craig’s driven him for years and he’ll look after him at home. I’m sick of this business. If he wants to kill himself let him go ahead.”
“He oughtn’t to be left alone at home,” said Grace. “You’d better go in with him, Ward, and see that he has the doctor.”