BUDTHORNE’S STRUGGLE.
The working of alcohol on some constitutions is remarkable. It is a
singular thing that some men seem to keep themselves steeped in the
poison for years without breaking down, while others rapidly go to
pieces and become physical wrecks before its vitality-destroying
influence. The latter class is by far the larger.
Occasionally a man whose nerves are deep set, whose constitution is
ironlike and whose coarser nature predominates, persists in drinking
regularly and heavily for years and seems to remain in good health. To
those who know him well, and meet him day after day, he presents no
abnormal aspect; but almost certain it is that drink has taken such a
hold on him that he cannot appear to be in his natural condition unless
he constantly keeps in his stomach enough of the stuff to intoxicate an
occasional drinker to the point of reeling. Take it away from him and he
collapses like a pricked bladder.
Dunbar Budthorne was a man without the stamina to withstand the
blighting effect of constant drinking. The rapidity with which the stuff
fastened its clutch upon him was appalling. His relapse when, at the
entreaty of his loving and faithful sister, he stopped drinking and let
it wholly alone, was pitiful.
Ever since arriving at the Ben Cleuch, Budthorne had been in a state of
mental distress and physical collapse. The desire for drink was with him
constantly, and in his soul a fierce battle raged unceasingly. In the
night he rose and paced the floor of his room, his hands clinched, his
nerves taut, mumbling, mumbling, mumbling. Every night, at his request,
Nadia locked him in that room, keeping the key with her.
“You must master the desire, Dunbar, my brother,” she said. “You can do
it.”
“Yes, by Heaven!” he cried, setting his teeth. “For you, Nadia, I will
do it!”
“Not for me alone, Dunbar; for yourself, as well. You can see what you
have come to in less than a year. A year ago you were not the slave of
drink.”
“I should say not! And had any one told me I’d get this way in twelve
months I should have thought him a fool. I don’t understand it now.
Nadia, why can other men drink when they choose, and let it alone when
they choose?”
“Not all of them can, Dunbar, I am sure. I believe there are thousands
just like you.”
“Perhaps you’re right; they keep it hidden from others, or they do not
realize it themselves.”
“That’s the way it is.”
“What a wise little chicken you are, sister! What a brave little girl!
And what a worthless brother you have!”
Then she would caress him and pat him on the cheek, and tell him he was
“all right.”
“All wrong, you mean. Sis, I’m going to make my share of the fortune
left us over to you. I’ll do it at the first opportunity. I’ve made a
hole in it already. Were I to keep hitting the booze, I’d go through the
whole of it in another year.”
“But you have stopped, and you’ll never touch it again. You have escaped
from those evil friends whose influence was ruining you. Their hold on
you is broken.”
She did not chide him with his folly and weakness in ever becoming
friendly with such unworthy companions. She did not remind him that Luke
Durbin was a barroom acquaintance, a race-track gambler, and a creature
he had been forced to introduce to her with a flush of shame on his
cheeks. She knew he had thought of this with regret and remorse.
But it was not Durbin she most feared; it was the Spaniard, Bunol, who
had been forced upon them by Durbin. She believed Bunol possessed some
evil power of unknown force which he had exercised upon Budthorne, and
the spell of which he had tried to cast upon her. Durbin knew about this
mysterious power, and he had brought Bunol forward that the fellow might
exercise it to accomplish the downfall of Budthorne and the snaring of
his sister.
“Yes, their hold is broken,” he agreed. “We have our chance
acquaintances which we met on London Bridge to thank for that. It was
your scheme——”
“Not mine; Dick Merriwell did it. It was he who formed the plan to
disguise himself as Mr. Allsquint and get into your room in London that
night of the card party, where he exposed the cheating of Bunol, who was
robbing you at cards.”
“A wonderful chap that boy is! I like him, Nadia, and I like his chum,
the fellow from Texas. Don’t you?”
“I do, indeed. Brad Buckhart is splendid, and the old professor is a
genial soul. I am sorry we were unable to remain in Edinburgh until they
came; but Bunol was there, and I knew we might encounter him any time. I
thought it best to come here, but I have written our friends, making an
explanation, and I hope they will take the trouble to hunt us up.”
“If they do, it will be on your account, sis. Oh, yes it will! Look out
for Buckhart, Nadia! The fellow is smitten.”
“Nonsense, Dunbar!”
“He is. I noticed how he held your hand as they were seeing us off at
the station in London. His eyes followed you all the time. You’ll have a
wild and woolly Texan on your staff if you’re not careful.”
“I don’t see that there is anything so very wild and woolly about him.”
“Ha! ha! You resent that, eh? It looks suspicious, girl—very suspicious.
Better be careful.”
“Stop your teasing, Dunbar! I’m sure I don’t care a snap about him, and
I don’t believe he cares anything about me. Why should he? We barely
know each other; we may never meet again. He is only a boy——”
“And you’re only a girl. Many a boy-and-girl affair has ripened into
something binding. Better wait until you find out more about him. We
know practically nothing.”
“Oh, but I know he is a gentleman!” protested the girl. “If he were not
he would not be with Dick Merriwell and Professor Gunn. I have seen him,
too, when he dropped his Western manners and was as refined in every way
as any one can be. You don’t think all Westerners are wild and woolly,
do you?”
“Far from it. I am sure a chap from that part of our country may be as
much a gentleman as any one; but your earnest defense of him increases
my suspicions. You’ll have to be on your guard.”
“Why don’t you try to tease me about Dick Merriwell? I addressed the
letter to him, telling him whither we had gone.”
“All the more significant. The wise bird takes flight at first sight of
the sportsman.”
“You’re perfectly tormenting, Dunbar! If you continue talking in such a
foolish manner I shall think your brain is affected.”
He laughed again.
“All right; I’ll let up—for the time being. But I’ll wager Buckhart
shows up here as soon as possible after your letter is received, and
he’ll bring the others with him. We’ll have them with us by to-morrow.”
“I hope so,” she confessed.
The thing predicted was to happen even sooner.