"As you like," Jack assented, indifferently. "But I must see Hunston first—he will go from the docks to the office, and expect to find me there."
They entered a cab and drove westward, through the decorated streets and surging crowds of the city, down Ludgate Hill and up the slope of Fleet street. Jack left his friend in the Strand, before the Illustrated Universe building, with its windows placarded with the paper's original sketches and sheets from the current issue, and it was more than an hour later when he turned up at Jimmie's luxurious chambers in the Albany. He was in slightly better spirits, and he exhaled an odor of brandy. He had a check for five hundred pounds in his pocket, and there was more money due him.
"Where's my war-paint?" he demanded.
That meant, in plain English, Jack's dress clothes, and they were soon produced from a trunk he had left in Jimmie's care. He made a careful toilet, and then the two sallied forth into the blazing streets and pleasure-seeking throngs.
They went to the Continental, above Waterloo Place, and Jack ordered the dinner lavishly—he insisted on playing the host. He chatted in his old light-hearted manner during the courses, occasionally laughing boisterously, but with an artificial ring that was perceptible to his companion. His eyes sparkled, and his brown cheeks flushed under the glow of the red-shaded lamps.
"This is a rotten world, Jimmie," he said. "You know that, don't you? But I've come home to have a good time, and I'm going to have it—I don't care how."
"I wouldn't drink any more," Jimmie urged.
"Another bottle, old chap," Jack cried, thickly, as he lighted a fresh cigar; "and then we'll wind up at the Empire."
"None for me, thank you."
"Then I'll drink it myself," vowed Jack. "Do you hear, garcon—'nother bottle!'"