There was a good deal of confusion, of course. Women made sounds. One or two, I think, ran from the room. There was much scraping of chairs as men got up and made for us. The manager of the hotel appeared, crowding through toward us.
The Chinaman did not stir; he was now merely a heap of blue clothing at our feet, huddled against the table-leg.
Crocker stood beside the table, steadying himself by gripping the back of his chair, and smiling with an air of rather self-conscious distinction. He bowed slightly to the breathless manager.
“It was quite unavoidable,” he said. “As a gentleman you will readily see that.” His tongue was thicker now. “Nobody regrets it more'n I—nobody more'n I.”
The manager gave me a look and caught him by one arm. I took the other. Crocker hung back.
“This is quite unnecessary,” he said, “quite unnecessary. I'm perf'kly sober, I assure you. As a matter o' fac', I'm soberes' man in th 'ole big room. Very big room. Ver' big room indeed. Bigges' room ever saw.”
Between, us, the manager and I got him upstairs and into his room. Then I was left alone with him to undress him and get him into his bed. The task consumed all of an hour. He was rough, almost violent, one moment, and absurdly polite the next. His mind developed a trick of leaping off on unexpected tangents. He tried to point out reasons against removing each article of clothing as we came to it. It was interesting, on the whole. I have since almost regretted that I did not make exact notes of these curious mental flights. But at the moment it seemed too remote from my own field of study. And I suppose my decision was reasonable.