"Hello, Everett! Didn't know you could walk so fast." Jervais slapped him on the back and laughed noisily. Sargent took the outstretched hand and then dropped it quickly, in his desire to get away from the man, for Jervais when sober had always been irritating to him, almost insulting in his hauteur; drunk, he was both disgusting and dangerous. They had met frequently during the winter, for it was the regular custom of Jervais to take Sunday dinner with Mrs. Brandon, a fact which Sargent had never been able to understand. Nothing seemed so incongruous to him as the cool, self-possessed, formal chatelaine receiving attention from a man of Jervais's calibre and reputation. The man had never grown congenial, and during the last months their discussions at the dinner table had been so heated that Sargent had chosen that day to spend in long rides, in preference to sitting through a dinner of several hours, opposite a man whose political and social beliefs were so directly opposed to his own. Judge Houston had laughed over the antagonism, telling Sargent it was good training for him to meet such a man and learn to restrain himself. Sargent had answered that restraint, when it was a matter of convictions and creeds, was worthless.
"Haven't seen you since you got in the ring," Jervais continued unsteadily. "How d'you feel? Like you could conquer the world, I suppose! How many years do you think you'll have to wait for a case?—Ten—eh? Say—wait a minute—will you?" as Sargent struggled from his grasp. "Want to tell you something—it's a secret. Phelps offered me a thousand dollars to clear him. I had to take it—been gambling too much lately. But I tell you, Everett, I don't want the Widow Brandon to hear about it. Now—don't tell her—will you?"
"Of course not, Jervais; I'll not mention it to her. But you had better tell her yourself. Of course she will hear of it from some one. Good-bye, I'm in a hurry."
"Say, Everett," Jervais still clung to his arm. "When are you going to have your first case? Im dead anxious to see you before the bar. A Yankee schoolteacher a lawyer—that'll be rich! Say—a crippled one, too—that'll be a joke." He ended with another loud burst of merriment.
For a second Sargent stared into the leering face of the drunken man. Then, trembling in a spasm of rage, his fingers knotted themselves together, and before he was aware of what he was doing, his arm had shot up and delivered a blow full into Jervais' face.
As soon as he had done it, a strange calm swept over him, and he stood as one aloof, looking on the result of his act.
Jervais staggered back a step, wheeled in an attempt to keep his balance, and fell full length upon the pavement.
In a second a crowd was about them, several assisting Jervais to rise.
When he had regained his feet, Sargent made a step toward him—"Is he hurt?" he asked very quietly.
"No—don't you know you can't hurt a drunken man?"