“No, I will not go,” he said, with blunt decision, after listening to Harry's pleading. “It is Lieutenant De Lacy's picnic, and I will have nothing to do with him, and indeed he will not be wanting me!”
“Oh, he's forgotten all about that little affair,” cried Harry.
“Has he? Indeed then if he is a man he has not!”
“I guess he hasn't remembered much of anything for the last week,” said Harry, with a slight laugh.
“Why not?”
“Oh, pshaw, he's been on a big tear. He only sobered up yesterday.”
“Huh!” grunted Ranald, contemptuously. He had little respect for a man who did not know when he had had enough. “What about his job?” he asked.
“His job? Oh, I see. His job doesn't worry him much. He's absent on sick-leave. But he's all fit again and I know he will be disappointed if you do not come to-morrow.”
“I will not go,” said Ranald, with final decision, “and you can tell him so, and you can tell him why.”
And Harry did tell him with considerable fullness and emphasis not only of Ranald's decision, but also Ranald's opinion of him, for he felt that it would do that lordly young man no harm to know that a man whom he was inclined to patronize held him in contempt and for cause. The lieutenant listened for a time to all Harry had to say with apparent indifference, then suddenly interrupting him, he said: “Oh, I say, old chap, I wouldn't rub it in if I were you. I have a more or less vague remembrance of having rather indulged in heroics. One can't keep his head with poker and unlimited brandy-and-sodas; they don't go together. It's a thing I almost never do; never in a big game, but the thing got interesting before I knew. But I say, that Glengarry chap plays a mighty good game. Must get him on again. Feels hot, eh? I will make that all right, and what's the French chap's name—Boileau, Rondeau, eh? Rouleau. Yes, and where could one see him?”