“Why, Savoy! How earnest thou here?” I said.
“The devil fetched me, I guess.”
He was far gone in liquor. “I am like Mr. Sterne’s starling: ‘I can’t get out.’ Ever read Mr. Sterne’s—what is it?—oh, his ‘Sentimental Journey’?”
Here was one worse than I, and I felt inclined to use what Friends call a precious occasion, a way being opened.
“This is a sad business, Savoy,” I said.
“Dre’ful,” he returned. “Facilis descensus taverni. No use to talk to me. I am tired of life. I am going to die. Some men shoot themselves, some like the rope, and some cold water. You know what Bishop what’s-his-name—I mean Jeremy Taylor—says about ways to die: ‘None please me.’ But drink is the best. I mean to drink myself dead—dead—d—dead,” and here he fell on to my shoulder. Letting him down easily, I loosed his neckerchief, and stood beside him, pitiful and shocked. Then in a moment I felt that I was drunk. The room whirled, and with an effort I got to the open window, stumbling over legs of men, who looked up from their cards and cursed me.
Of what chanced after this I knew for a time but little, until I was in one instant sobered. This was an hour later, and nigh to twelve o’clock. What took place I heard from others; and, as it concerns a turning-point in my life, I shall try to relate it as if I myself had been conscious all the while.
The better for air, I went over to a table in the centre of the room not far from the door. Leaning heavily on Captain Small’s shoulder, I threw on the table the last gold joe my aunt had given me with her final lesson in morals.
“Best in three, Etherington.”
“Take it,” he cried.