"I'm n-not drunk, I t-tell you. I know when I've had enough,
g-give me some brandy, Chit, I know there's p-precious little left."
"Why then, fix this flint first, Ronald, I see you have all the
necessary tools here." So saying, Mr. Chichester rose and began
feeling through his pockets, while Barrymaine, grumbling, stooped
above the pistol-case. Then, even as he did so, Mr. Chichester drew
out a silver flask, unscrewed it, and thereafter made a certain quick,
stealthy gesture behind his companion's back, which done, he screwed
up the flask again, shook it, and, as Barrymaine rose, held it out
to him: "Yes, I'm afraid there's very little left, Ronald," said he. With a
murmur of thanks Barrymaine took the flask and, setting it to his
lips, drained it at a gulp, and handed it back.
"Gad, Chichester!" he exclaimed, "it tastes damnably of the
f-flask--faugh! What time is it?"
"A quarter to seven!"
"Th-three quarters of an hour to wait!"
"It will soon pass, Ronald, besides, he's sure to be early."
"Hope so! But I--I think I'll s-sit down."
"Well, the floor's dry, though dirty."
"D-dirty? So it is, but beggars can't be c-choosers and--dev'lish
drowsy place, this!--I'm a b-beggar--you know t-that, and--pah! I
think I'm l-losing my--taste for brandy--"
"Really, Ronald? I've thought you seemed over fond of it--especially
lately."
"No--no!" answered Barrymaine, speaking in a thick, indistinct voice
and rocking unsteadily upon his heels, "I'm not--n-not drunk,
only--dev'lish sleepy!" and swaying to the wall he leaned there with
head drooping.
"Then you'd better--lie down, Ronald."
"Yes, I'll--lie down, dev'lish--drowsy p-place--lie down," mumbled
Barrymaine, suiting the action to the word; yet after lying down
full length, he must needs struggle up to his elbow again to blink
at Mr. Chichester, heavy eyed and with one hand to his wrinkling brow.
"Wha-what w-was it we--came for? Oh y-yes--I know--Bev'ley, of course!
You'll w-wake me--when he c-comes?"
"I'll wake you, Ronald."
"S-such a c-cursed--drowsy--" Barrymaine sank down upon his side,
rolled over upon his back, threw wide his arms, and so lay,
breathing stertorously.
Then Mr. Chichester smiled, and coming beside him, looked down upon
his helpless form and flushed face and, smiling still, spoke in his
soft, gentle voice: "Are you asleep, Ronald?" he inquired, and stirred Barrymaine
lightly with his foot, but, feeling him so helpless, the stirring
foot grew slowly more vicious. "Oh Ronald," he murmured, "what a
fool you are! what a drunken, sottish fool you are. So you'd give
him a chance, would you? Ah, but you mustn't, Ronald, you shan't,
for your sake and my sake. My hand is steadier than yours, so sleep,
my dear Ronald, and wake to find that you have rid us of our good,
young Samaritan--once and for all, and then--hey for Cleone, and no
more dread of the Future. Sleep on, you swinish sot!"