The consul took a long drink, eyed the empty glass, and spoke into it.
“I used to think just like that. ’Why don’t you go home?’ I used to think I could go home, that it was just a question of buying a ticket and climbing aboard a liner. But—” he broke off, and glanced at Gerry as he refilled his glass.
“But what?” said Gerry.
“Well,” said the consul, “I’m just drunk enough to tell you. I’m only proud in the mornings before I’m thoroughly waked up. I used to drive a pen for a Western daily at twenty-five dollars a week. It was good pay, and I married on it. I and the girl lived like the corn-fed hogs of our native State. Life was one sunshine, and when the baby came, we joined hands, and said good-by to sorrow forever. Then her people got busy and landed me this job. The pay was three thousand, and if you want to see how big three thousand dollars a year can look, just go and stand behind any old kind of plow in Kansas. I jumped at it. We sold out our little outfit and raked up just enough to see me out here. The girl and the kid went to visit her people. I was to save up out of the first quarter’s pay and send for them. That was three years ago.”
“Do you see that steamer out there?” said Gerry. “Well, she’s bound for home. I want to give you the chance that comes after the last chance. I want you to let me send you home.”
The consul looked around. His pendulous lip twisted into a smile.
“So you took all that talk for the preamble to a touch!” he said.
“No, I didn’t,” said Gerry, indignantly.
“Well, well, never mind,” said the consul. “There’s nothing left to go back to, and there’s nothing left to go back. That little account in the bank, and what it may do for some poor devil, is the only monument I’ll ever build.”
The whisky-bottle was almost empty, but Gerry’s glass was still untouched. The consul pointed at it.