And so alternately damning the doctors and demanding the Demon, he sank on the bed and snored the snore of the drunk. She knelt by his side and wept, and—God help her!—prayed. She remembered him, you see, when he returned from College with his University honours thick upon him, and before the Demon had got him—tight.
There was a great audience the next night at the New Cut Hall, and Mr. Browley, in his dress clothes, looked somewhat more presentable than on the previous day. His wife had managed to procure linen, and the worthy Alderman in the chair was quite pleased and encouraged by the improved appearance of the lecturer; though it is true he once whispered to Mr. Bottle that he thought he detected a very strong smell of drink in the room.
Mr. Browley was in due course presented to the large and highly expectant audience. And it must be admitted that rarely had an audience the opportunity of listening to an oration of such force and vigour. The whole figure of the lecturer seemed to change, his face glowed, the assumption of hauteur left him as he assailed the drink Demon and portrayed his victims. Now a torrent of applause followed some well-aimed hit at the vendors of drink, and now some pathetic anecdote drew tears from the eyes of his auditors. The Alderman was enchanted, and applauded vociferously; now agreeing with his secretary, that Mr. Browley was indeed a very remarkable man.
Presently the lecturer proceeded to deal with the awful disease which turns the habitual drunkard into a dangerous maniac. He described the progress and effect of delirium tremens. His eyes now flashed wildly as he portrayed to the affrighted audience devils from the pit of hell; and goblin forms and pursuing shapes of beast and reptile. His body swayed to and fro: he spoke in gasps; his mouth seemed parched and hot. Now his eye-balls appeared to shoot from his head, and his arms were moved in front of him as if to ward off the creatures of his fancies. The effect was electrical. The audience rose at him, and followed his effort with long-continued applause.
In the middle of it all the lecturer’s face appeared to grow livid, his eyes fixed, and his limbs stiff. He placed his left hand to his temple, and with his stretched forefinger pointed in front of him. Then he moaned as a wild animal moans in pain, and fell backward on the platform. A wild shriek burst from the back of the hall as his wife rushed forward, jumped upon the platform, and threw herself on the prostrate body.
A doctor arrived in due course.
“Drunk?” inquired Mr. Bottle, when he had examined him.
“No. Dead!” answered the physician.
XIII.
“OLD BOOTS.”
About five years ago, on days when the sun shone warmly, an old man might have been observed taking the air in Kennington Park. He was one of those seedy and aimless old gentlemen usually described as having seen better days. He was generally supposed to have been engaged in the City in early life, and to live upon a small pension tendered to him out of the generosity of his old employers. He lived in humble apartments in a street which ran off the Camberwell New Road, and he attended twice on Sundays the conventicle of a strict sect of Dissenters, by whose minister he was much respected, although his small means prevented his subscribing liberally to the chapel funds.