"Where is it?" muttered Harvey, starting to where the broken fragments lay.
He found it; and even those who had tried so hard to overbear him a little while before cast pitying glances as he stooped down, trembling, lifting the bottom of the bottle in both his shaky hands, lifting it carefully and holding it to his lips till the last drop was drained.
It was but a few minutes till he resumed the quest. "Must be some more lying round somewhere," he said, with a smile that was pitiful to see.
"Afraid not," said Oliver; "that was the last."
"What's in that cabinet?" Harvey urged, rising to his feet.
"No go, Simmons, I'm afraid," muttered Forrester; "if there was any round, Oliver'd know it—when he gives up, there ain't any."
Harvey got up and went over to Palmer, throwing his arm about his shoulder. "I say, old man," he began, controlling his voice as best he could, "you don't know how bad I'm feeling. And you've got a flask with you, haven't you, Palmer?—I wouldn't ask you, only I'm feeling so tough. Had a hard time of it in the office to-night."
Palmer looked hard at him. "If I had a tankful I wouldn't give you a drop, Simmons," he said.
Harvey winced. And he stood looking into Palmer's face like a guilty man, his eyes gradually turning away in confusion before the other's searching gaze. A hot flush of shame, not yet unfamiliar flowed over cheek and brow. But it was only for a moment—these better symptoms retreated before the flame that consumed him. "I'm going out," he said presently, his eyes turning heavily from one face to the other, his parched lips trembling.
"If you've got to have it, I think I know a place we can get in—I'm sure I do," drawled Oliver, yawning. "But bed's the place for all of us."