I groped. “Is it his birthday?” (Not that we are much given to celebrating birthdays in Our Square.)
“Oh, you men! You men! I've just telephoned the Little Red Doctor and he didn't know either. It's the second anniversary of the day MacLachan's Meg left him. Do you remember what happened last year, dominie?”
Did I remember! When Lawyer Sted-man had lured me to perjure my immortal soul before a magistrate, who let Mac off only upon the strength of a character sketch (by me) that would have overpraised any one of the Twelve Apostles! I did remember.
“Very well, then. You and the doctor are to take him away this evening. Far away and bring him back sober.”
We did our best. And we almost succeeded. For it was close on midnight and Mac was sleepily homebound between us before what he had drunk—against a rising current of our protests—awoke the devil of music in his brain. We were cutting across Second Avenue when he began:
“I'll tell you a story without any sham.
In Holland there lived Mynheer van Flam,
Who every morning said: 'I am
The richest merchant in Rotterdam,
Ri-tu, di-nu, di-nu—da—na—day!
Ri-tu, di-nu, di-nay!”
From the shadow of a tree there moved one of those brazen and piteous she-ghosts that haunt the locality. She addressed the three of us with hopeful impartiality. MacLachan shook himself free of our arms and walked close to her, staring strangely into her face.
“I've got a daughter in your line of trade,” he said.
He spoke quietly, but the she-ghost read his eyes. She shrank back trembling, stammered something, and hurried away.
Not until we entered Our Square, after ten minutes of strained silence, did MacLachan look up from the pavement.