"I doubt if I shall like your mixture," said Anthony, fingering it, "but tobacco in any form appeals to me." He filled the pipe, and lighted it, and sucked at it meditatively.
During the next hour or so he mumbled over the pipe—removing it occasionally from between his teeth to utter some scathing criticism of the world and the world's methods—methods by which he had suffered. Charlie nodded fast to slumber, but woke himself now and then with a jerk, to answer vaguely some question that had been put to him fiercely by the old man. At last, as it grew on to one o'clock in the morning, and Anthony Ditchburn, having mixed himself many doses, and having also dug deep into the tobacco jar, was stretching out more comfortably in his chair, Charlie rose to his feet, and yawned, and looked despairingly at the clock.
"I'm very sorry," he said, "but I've got a lecture in the morning, and I've got to turn out early. I'm dead tired; I shall go to bed."
"Don't let me detain you," said Mr. Ditchburn, a little thickly.
Charlie stared at him in perplexity. "Yes, but—I can't very well leave you here; it isn't—isn't exactly polite," he said.
"Do not waste politeness on me," retorted Anthony, wagging his head at the fire, which had died down almost to nothing. "I am not used to it. If you insist upon my leaving you, I shall in all probability be discovered in a comatose state in the streets by some benevolent policeman; it is too far for me to walk to my humble lodging to-night—and cabs I cannot afford. Surely I am doing no harm in remaining here?" he added, stretching out his hand, and looking round at the young man. "Let me at least remain where I am warm; I can sleep anywhere. This chair is very comfortable—and I can reach the coal to replenish the fire without moving. Good-night!"
Charlie would have removed the decanter with the remaining whisky in it before going, but at the very moment that he stretched out a hand for it Anthony Ditchburn also reached out towards it to replenish his glass. Charlie good-humouredly shrugged his shoulders, and went to bed.
In the morning, when he came out to his breakfast, he discovered the decanter empty, and the room thick with the fumes of stale tobacco; Anthony had apparently been smoking and drinking all night. He blinked red eyes at Charlie, and smacked his dry lips, and watched the preparations for breakfast; he looked more shabby and unkempt than ever in the morning light. He sat down unbidden with his unwilling host; ate substantially, and had almost to be turned out of the place by force at last. But he went finally, and Charlie congratulated himself on the fact that he had got rid of him.
He had yet to learn that Anthony Ditchburn could stick like the proverbial leech, and could bleed his victim as voraciously. He came again and again; was to be found, miserably cold, upon the stairs at unseasonable hours; even when sent away he left behind him the whining threat that he would be found dead in the street, and that his blood would be upon the head of Charlie Purdue. The persecution became so great at last that it roused Charlie to do that which he had been half-shamefacedly contemplating for some time. So that in the end it may be said that this miserable whining creature, with his tales of wrongs done him, and benefits withheld, became in a sense the pivot round which the tragedy was to revolve.
Charlie came up one evening to the lamp-lit room where Moira and Patience were seated; he was bubbling over with excitement and suppressed laughter. As he came in Moira noted something about him, and spoke of it at once.