“That’s it; you just describe the very thing, Aleck. Nothing like home comforts. Only apt to unfit us for the rough experiences of life; that’s the only fault I’ve got to find. Here’s the Sherman—take care of the young chap—and good-night.”
CHAPTER XIII.
A BACHELOR’S “DEN.”
After leaving the Sherman House Wycherley has the driver take him down Michigan Avenue. He produces a cigar, one of Aleck’s choice weeds. Then comes a match.
“Ah! this is solid comfort,” he muses, stretching his legs out on the front seat as if eager to fill the whole vehicle; “it is my dream realized: a private carriage, a fine weed—perfect happiness. When my million comes home, I’ve got it all laid out. It won’t take me long to spend it. I can shut my eyes and imagine I’m a McCormick or a Cereal going home to my palatial abode. It’s just elegant, you know.”
Thus he chuckles and interviews himself after a habit peculiarly his own, until suddenly the vehicle draws up to the curb.
“Twenty-first Street, sir,” says John, who is especially good-natured after receiving the fat fee from the young roysterer.
Wycherley alights with great dignity.
“Good-night, my man,” he says, and the driver, impressed with his air, answers respectfully.
The ex-actor saunters along the avenue until the hack has vanished. Then he turns on his heel and retraces his steps to the corner. Along Twenty-first Street he walks. At this hour of the night, the dividing line between two days, there are few people abroad, and Wycherley meets no one on his tramp.