“‘Good God!’ he cried, pushing his fingers through his hair.
“‘Graham,––whatever is the matter with you?’ I asked. ‘You surely haven’t been drinking? You’re ill.’
“He laughed.
“‘I’m all right! Nothing wrong with my health! Guess it’s my morals that have gone fluey. So you got the money? My God!––if I’d only known that.”
“He put his hand in his back pocket, drew out a bundle of bills and tossed it on the table beside mine. It was money, Jim,––money by the heap.
“‘Good heavens, man!––where did you get it?’ I cried.
“‘Ay!––you may well ask. I had to have it––you know; so I went out and got it. Stole it––or rather, borrowed it when the other fellow wasn’t looking. See that over there!’ He pointed to a basin on the wash-stand. ‘Look inside, Phil. It’s red. Look at your shirt lying in the corner there. It’s bloody too. God!––the damned stuff is still all over me. It sticks like glue. It won’t come off.’
“His voice was gradually getting louder, so I went to him and clapped my hand over his mouth. I cautioned him to be quiet. For the first time in my memory, Graham Brenchfield broke down and cried like a baby. Little wonder,––for it was his first great offence against society and law.
“I led him to a chair and sat quietly beside him until the worst of his wildness seemed to be over.
“‘Graham,––you must pull yourself together,’ I said. ‘Tell me what it is you have done. Maybe it is not so bad. Maybe we can fix it up.’