A dull colour stained the pasty whiteness of Quest's face. For several minutes he stood there, his fingers working and picking at each other, his pale, prominent eyes glaring.
"That's a big indictment, doctor," he said at last.
"Thank God you think it so," returned the doctor. "If you will stand by your better self for one week—for only one week—after leaving Mulqueen's, I'll stand by you for life, my boy. Come! You were a good sport once. And that little sister of yours is worth it. Come, Stuyvesant; is it a bargain?"
He stepped forward and held out his large, firm, reassuring hand. The young fellow took it limply.
"Done with you, doctor," he said without conviction; "it's hell for mine, I suppose, if I don't make my face behave. You're right; I'm the goat; and if I don't quit butting I'll sure end by slapping some sissy citizen with an axe."
He gave the doctor's hand a perfunctory shake with his thin, damp fingers; dropped it, turned to go, halted, retraced his steps.
"Will it give me the willies if I kiss a cocktail good-bye before I start for that fresh guy, Mulqueen?"
"Start now, I tell you! Haven't I your word?"
"Yes—but on the way to buy transportation can't I offer myself one last——"
"Can't you be a good sport, Stuyve?"