I could see his end.
"I'd much rather see stars than snakes," I remarked. But Jake merely laughed it off.
I rose in a kind of cold perspiration. To me, this was horrible;—drinking for no apparent reason.
He came with me to the door. His voice was as steady as could be; so were his legs. The effects of the liquor he had consumed did not show on him except maybe for a bloodshot appearance in the whites of his baby-blue eyes.
I was worried. I had known such another as Jake in the little village of Brammerton; and I knew what the inevitable end had been and what Jake's would be also.
"Don't be sore at me, George," he pleaded. "It's the only friend I got now."
"It is not any friend of yours, Jake."
"Well,—maybe it ain't, but I think it is and that's about the only way we can reckon our friends.
"When you find I ain't doin' my share o' the work because o' the booze or when you catch me drunk,—I'll quit it. Good-night, George."
I wished him good-night gruffly, hurried over the beach, scrambled into the boat and rowed quickly for my new home.