“What—drinking?”
“Yes, he's got a peach of a jag already.”
Hunch hurried down to the saloon. Bruce was sitting on one of the tables, treating the crowd.
“Hello, Hunch,” he said, waving his glass. “Have somethin' on me, ol' man. All my fren's got to have somethin' on me to-night. I'm a father, Hunch.”
Hunch took his arm and jerked him to his feet. Bruce leaned against Hunch, and a man laughed.
“Shut up, there!” said Hunch. Then he led Bruce away and took him to his own room. He needed to think. It was not such a simple matter as in the other days, when Bruce was one of his crew. He sat by the bed until the night was half gone. Bruce had gone to sleep. Hunch had been angry, but after awhile he began to think of Mamie and the baby, and his expression softened a little. Mamie was not in condition to bear a shock. The only thing to do was to sober Bruce and get him home, so he took off his coat and hammered him until he showed signs of consciousness. Finally he got him aroused, and then ducked his head in the washbowl, and scrubbed his face with soap and water.
It was two o'clock in the morning before Bruce was fit to go home. Then he sat on the bed and looked helplessly at Hunch.
“What'll I do, Hunch? I can't go home now.”
“You shut up and go along. Don't do any more talking about it.”
“I can't, Hunch. Think of it! There ain't a thing I can tell Marne. I went uptown to get some medicine and said I'd come right back.”