He had smoked the last of his cigar. Now he lighted a fresh one.
“I'll give you my answer at two,” he added.
For a moment I did not know what to say to this.
“What's the matter,” he said, in that rough voice.
It was such a voice, I imagined, as he would employ with business subordinates. “What's the matter? Isn't that reasonable? You've stated your proposition. I'll think it over and give you my answer after lunch. If I accept it, I'll pack up and leave Peking on the first train.”
Still I hesitated. He just sat and smoked.
“You know what's the matter,” I replied, finally. I decided to stick to my policy of talking in his own blunt way. “How do I know that you will be sober at two?”
“I'll be sober,” said he. He thought this over, and added, “After all, Eckhart, I suppose you have a right to ask that question. I'll admit that I've been making a dam' fool of myself. I've been drunk ever since I got here.”
“Yes,” said I, “I know it.”
This disturbed him a little, but he went on—“I'm glad you threw that bottle out. It was what I needed to bring me to my senses. I'm all right now. You 'll see. Tell you what I 'll do—I'll take a cold bath. That always sets me up. Then I'll order up a lot of coffee with my lunch, and only a light wine.” He got up, and stood over me. “There's my assurance that you'll find me here, O. K., at two. I'm not a common drunkard, Eckhart. You're not a man of the world, and you don't see these things quite as they are. I've been stewed, that's all. I'm through. Now for the coldest bath they've got.” He began stripping off his clothing. “Come right in at two. Don't bother to send your name up.”