The drunken beast straightened his limp form as well as he was able, as he hiccoughed:
“All rightsh, Tom Ham’n’d. Every dawg hash hish day. You’re havin’ yoursh now, all rightsh—all rightsh,—but I’ll—hic—do fur yer; I’ll—hic—ruin yer; I’ll——”
Tom Hammond darted from his place by the table. The next instant he would have put his threat of “hurling out” into execution, but the drunken braggart did not wait for him, for he shuffled out of the room, cursing hideously.
As the door closed upon him, Tom Hammond went across to the window, and flung up the lower sashes, and drew down the upper ones. From a drawer in a cabinet he took a strip of scented joss-paper, and lit it. The sandal-like perfume spread instantly through all the room.
“Faugh!” he muttered. “The whole place seems foul after his presence.”
He turned to his wash-stand, rolled back the polished top, and washed his hands.
“I’ll see Ralph,” he muttered, as he dried his hands “and go out for a couple of hours. I’ll go and see Cohen.”
It was curious how often he found excuse to visit the Jew.
A quarter of an hour later he drove up to the house of Cohen. He found him, with his wife and Zillah, on the point of starting for their synagogue.
“One may live a life-time, as a Jew, in this country,” Cohen explained, “and never see the ceremony that is about to take place in our synagogue. It is what is known in our religion as ‘Chalitza.’ Will you go with us, Mr. Hammond?”