He hung his red head. “I dunno, Miss,” he replied miserably. “Maybe 'tis on account av him—the eye av him—the way av him—divil such a man did I ever meet—God bless him! Shure, Misther Geary do be the fine lad, but he—he——”
“Mr. Geary never put a big forefinger under your chin and bade you hold up your head. Is that it?”
“'Tis not what he did, Miss, but the way he did it. All the fiends av hell 'll be at me this night to shpend what he give me—and I—I'm afraid——”
He broke off, mumbling and chattering like a man in the grip of a great terror. In his agony of body and spirit, Dolores could have wept for Don Juan Cafetéro, for in that supreme moment the derelict's soul was bare, revealing something pure and sweet and human, for all his degradation. How did Jack Webster know? wondered Dolores. And why did he so confidently give an order to this human flotsam and expect it to be obeyed? And why did Don Juan Cafetéro come whining to her for strength to help him obey it? Through the murk of her girlish unsophstication and scant knowledge of human nature these and other questions obtruded themselves, the while she gazed down at Don Juan's dirty, quivering hand that held the coin toward her. And presently the answer came—a quotation long since learned and forgotten:
Be noble—and the nobleness that lies in other men,
Sleeping but never dead,
Will rise in majesty to meet thine own.
“I will not spoil his handiwork,” she told herself, and she stepped down off the veranda to a position directly in front of Don Juan. “That wouldn't be playing the game,” she told him. “I can't help you deceive him. You are the first of your breed——”
“Don't say it,” he cried. “Didn't he tell me wanst?”
“Then make the fight, Don—Mr. Cafferty.” She lowered her voice. “I am depending on you to stay sober and guard him. He needs a faithful friend so badly, now that Mr. Geary is away.” She patted the grimy hand and left him staring at the ground. Presently he sighed, quivered horribly, and shambled out of the patio on to the firing-line. And when he reported to Jack Webster at nine o'clock next morning, he was sober, shaking horribly and on the verge of delirium tremens, but tightly clasped in his right hand he held that five-dollar piece. Dolores, who had made it her business to be present at the interview, heard John Stuart Webster say heartily: