"What'n the hell's the good, anyway. The more you fight, the rawer a deal you get in the finish. Forget it! I'm drinkin' now whenever I'm good and ready; any old time at all and as much as I want,—and more."
I could do no more for him. It was Jake for it.
I stopped the southbound Cloochman that afternoon and put Jake's letters aboard. Two days later, two clerks from the Commercial Bank and a young lawyer from Dow, Cross & Sneddon's came into Golden Crescent in a launch. I took them over to Jake Meaghan's. I introduced them, then busied myself outside while the necessary formalities were gone through, for I did not wish to be in any way connected with Jake's settlements. At last, however, the old fellow came to the door.
"George,—I guess you'd better take care o' them for me. That's my bank receipt. That's my death warrant," he grinned, "I mean my will. You're better'n me at lookin' after papers."
We carried the brass-bound trunk to the launch and waved it a fond farewell, without tears or regrets.
For two weeks, morning, noon and night, Jake indulged in a horror of a drinking bout.
The very thought of that orgy still sets my blood running cold.
We pleaded, we threatened; but of no avail. The minister even closeted himself with Jake for a whole afternoon without making the slightest impression on him.
It was always the same old remark:
"I've boozed for ten years and it ain't hurt me, so I guess I can booze some more."