"Going round like a top, first on my head and then on my heels. How are you?"
Poor Theodore! the plot thickened. What should he do with this poor drunkard? Could he endure to let him stagger to his home to that waiting sister in this condition? A shrill, sharp, merry whistle broke at this moment on his ear; that voice he knew too, and waited until its owner came up; then addressed him still in low tones:
"Tommy, where are you going?"
"Going home—been to a fire—whole block burned down by the square, Mr. Stuart's house and—"
Theodore checked his voluble information.
"Have you seen anything of McPherson?"
"Yes, sir; he was at the fire too. Just whisked around the corner below here to go to his rooms. We came up together."
Theodore's listening ear caught the sound of an approaching policeman, and he hastened his plans. Pliny had sunk down on the steps and was muttering to himself in drunken, broken sentences.
"Tommy," said Theodore, addressing that individual, "there are empty carriages coming around the corner; the train is in. Will you take this young man in a carriage, drive to McPherson's door, and tell him to drive to my rooms with you, and make this gentleman comfortable till I come? Can I trust you, Tommy?"
"Yes, sir, every time," Tommy answered, proudly.