“Yes, it is a God-send to meet a man who can talk decent English. This is a hell of a place where brutes congregate, and Sunday is one long and ghastly agony for me.”
Paul listened in astonishment. He had never met with a man of just this type. He had known drinking men, in all their moods and tenses, for the most part men of the woods and plains, trappers, hunters, cowboys, half-breeds. But here was a man of such education and culture as would make Paul class him with his own father.
Dalton during the next half hour proceeded to give Paul the history of his doings of the past day and night, growing more confidential and loquacious as he helped himself from a bottle which he kept in his cupboard.
“Have a drink,” he cried, pressing the bottle upon Paul.
“No,” said Paul, “I never take it. I have never learned to like the stuff. To me indeed it is distasteful.”
“For God’s sake, never change your mind on that,” said Dalton. “Avoid your first drink. It is the devil’s trap, and sooner or later it gets you. It has taken years to get me, and now for this”—he held the bottle up before him—“I would sell my soul, I am selling my soul.”
“Then why not chuck it?” said Paul.
“I wish to God I could,” cried Dalton.
“Then I will help you,” said Paul. And picking up the bottle, he threw it out of the window. “There!” he said, as the crash came back to their ears. “That at least will hurt you no more.”
“What the hell do you mean?” cried Dalton, making a spring at him.