He perched on the edge of the bed, exhausted,--began groping with one
hand, in the air, idly.
"What is it? What do you want?"
"Give me my pants! I don't trust you. I want to go to the corner and get
a drink ... give me my pants!"
"Pop, look at me ... stop this nonsense ... you're safe ... I'm your
son, Johnnie!"
"That's all very well," he assented with an air of reserved cunning.
"Please believe me," I pleaded.
"All right ... you are my son ... only don't kill me," he responded
craftily.
"Father!... good God!"
He perceived by the emotion of my last exclamation, that at least I was
not ill-disposed toward him.
He clutched at the advantage.
"Promise to take care of me till Johnnie comes--he's just around the
corner," slyly.
"Pop, what is it you want? What can I do for you?"
"A curious greed flickered in his eyes.
"Get me a drink!"
"All right! I'll get it for you!"
"Let me think! There's none in the house ... none left, Emily said."
"But I brought some with me ... wait a minute." I went into the kitchen,
turned on the tap softly, filled a glass half full of water, brought it
back to him.
"Here it is."
"I don't like the colour of it."
"Why, it has a nice, rich colour."
"What is it?--Scotch?"
"Yes."
He sipped of it. Made a rueful face. "I don't like the taste of it ...
it tastes too much like water," he commented, with a quiet, grave,
matter-of-fact grimace that set me laughing, in spite of myself....
"Drink it down! I swear it's all right."
He tossed off the water.
"Give me my pants. I want to get out of here."
"Why, wasn't that whiskey that I just gave you?"
"Yes, yes ... but not very good stuff. I know where I can get better."
Humouring him, I helped him into his trousers ... painfully he put on
his shirt, neatly tied his tie, while I steadied him. This manual
function seemed to better his condition straightway. He startled me by
turning to me with a look of amused recognition in his eyes. He was no
longer off his head, just a very sick man.
"Well, Johnnie, so you're back again?"
"Yes, Pop--back again!"
"What are you going to do next?" he queried wearily, seating himself
laboriously in an armchair.
"Stay, and take care of you!"
"That will be unnecessary. I have had a rather severe attack of malaria
... that is all ... left me rather weak ... but now I'm getting over it
... had to take a lot of whiskey and quinine, though, to break it up!
"Malaria comes on me, every spring, you know ... harder than usual, this
spring, though ... it's made me dotty ... made me say things, at times,
I'm afraid!"
We sat silent.
"--need any money?" he was reaching into his pocket.
"No, I don't want a cent!"
"Then take this five dollar bill and go around to the corner saloon and
buy me a pint ... what I had is all used up, and the chills are not
quite out of me yet."
* * * * *
On the way to the saloon I stopped at Hartman's express office ...
related the foregoing story....
"H'm! yes!... I see!" ... Hartman braced his thumbs together
meditatively, "--from what you say it's pretty serious ... something
will have to be done this very day....
"Yes, go and get the pint ... let him have a drink of it. And--and keep
close to him all the time ... don't," he added significantly, "leave the
lady in question in the room alone with him for a single moment."
* * * * *
"Have you got the pint, Son?"
"Yes, Father. Here it is ... but just a little!"
"I know what I'm doing!"
He took most of it down at a gulp.
Noticing the anxious look in my eyes.
"Don't worry about me, Johnnie. I can take it or leave it alone ...
--always could!"
* * * * *
Before Mrs. Jenkins could come back, Hartman anticipated her with a
nurse and a doctor. As Mrs. Jenkins came in, chagrin and indignation
showed on her face. But she bowed perforce to the situation. She was too
wise not to.
"His lodge-brothers are taking care of Mr. Gregory now, Mrs. Jenkins,"
explained Mr. Hartman suavely, warning her off, at the same time, with a
severe, understanding look in his eyes.
She dropped her eyelashes--though with a bit of instinctive coquetry in
them--under his straight-thrusting glance.
"Well, I suppose professional care _would_ be better than anything I
could do for him ... but," sweetly, "I'll drop in from time to time to
see if there's any little thing I can do."
* * * * *
Deprived of the loving care of Emily Jenkins, though he called for her
many times, my father mended his condition rapidly. And, after a long,
mysterious conference with Hartman and other members of his fraternal
order, he consented to allow himself to be sent West on a visit. But not
till they had promised to keep his job as foreman in the Composite
Works, open for him, till he was well enough to come back.
After I had seen my father off, I stayed in the silent rooms only long
enough to pack up my books, which I left in care of Hartman.