_On the Brink_
Donaldson was aroused by the dog which was at the door barking
excitedly. It was broad daylight. As Donaldson sprang up he heard the
brisk approach of footsteps, and the next second a key fumbling in the
lock. Before he had fully recovered his senses the door swung open,
and Barstow, tanned and ruddy, burst in. Donaldson stared at him and
he stared at Donaldson. Then, striding over the dog, who yelped in
protest at this treatment, Barstow approached the haggard, unshaven man
who faced him.
"Good Heavens, Peter!" he cried, "what ails you?"
Donaldson put out his hand and the other grasped it with the clasp of a
man in perfect health.
"Can't you speak?" he demanded. "What's the matter with you?"
"I 'm glad to see you," answered Donaldson.
"But what are you doing here in this condition? Are you sick?"
"No, I 'm not sick. I lay down on the sofa and I guess I fell asleep."
"You look as though you had been sleeping there a month. Sit down,
man. You have a fever."
"There 's your dog," said Donaldson.
Barstow turned. The dog, with his forefeet on Barstow's knee, was
stretching his neck towards his master's hand.
"Hello, pup," he greeted him. "Did the janitor use you all right?" He
shook him off.
Donaldson sat down. Barstow stood in front of him a moment and then
reached to feel his pulse. It was normal.
"I 'm not sick, I tell you," said Donaldson, trying to laugh, "I was
just all in. I came up here to see if you were back and slumped down
on the couch. Then I fell asleep. There 's your dog behind you."
"What of it?" demanded Barstow.
"Why--he looks glad to see you."
"What of that?"
"Nothing."
Barstow laid his hand on Donaldson's shoulder.
"Have you been drinking?" he asked.
"Drinking? No, but I've a thirst a mile long. Any water around here?"
Barstow went to the closet and came back with a graduating glass full
of lukewarm water. Donaldson swallowed it in a couple of gulps.
"Lord, that's good!"
Barstow again bent a perplexed gaze upon him.
"You have n't been fooling with any sort of dope, Peter?"
"No."
"This is straight?"
"Yes, that's straight," answered Donaldson impatiently. "I tell you
that there is n't anything wrong with me except that I 'm fagged out."
"You did n't take my advice. You ought to have gone away. Why did n't
you?"
"I 've been too busy. There's your dog."
Barstow hung down his hand, that the pup might lick the ends of his
fingers.
"Peter," he burst out, "you ought to have been with me. If I 'd known
about the trip I 'd have taken you. It was just what you needed--a
week of lolling around a deck in the hot sun with the sea winds blowing
over your face. That's what you want to do--get out under the blue sky
and soak it in. If you don't believe it, look at me. Fit as a fiddle;
strong as a moose. You said you wanted to sprawl in the sunshine,--why
the devil don't you take a week off and do it?"
"Perhaps I will."
"That's the stuff. You must do it. You were in bad shape when I left,
but, man dear, you 're on the verge of a serious breakdown now. Do you
realize it?"
"Yes, I realize it. That 's a good dog of yours, Barstow."
"What's the matter with the pup? Seems to me you 're taking a deuce of
a lot of interest in him," he returned suspiciously.
"Dogs seem sort of human when you 're alone with them."
"This one looks more human than you do. See here, Don, Lindsey said
that he might start off again to-morrow on a short cruise to Newport.
I think I can get you a berth with him. Will you go?"
"It's good of you, Barstow," answered Donaldson uneasily, "but I don't
like to promise."
Would Barstow never call the dog by name? He could n't ask him
directly; it would throw too much suspicion upon himself. If Barstow
had left his laboratory that night for his trip, the chances were that
the bottle was not yet missed. He must be cautious. It would be
taking an unfair advantage of Barstow's friendship to allow him to feel
that indirectly he had been responsible for the death of a human being.
Donaldson glanced at his watch.
It had stopped.
"What time is it?" he asked.
"Half past nine."
Two hours and a half longer! He determined to remain here until
eleven. If, up to that time, Barstow had not called the dog by name he
would leave. He must write that letter and he must put himself as far
out of reach of these friends as possible before the end. If he died
on the train, his body would be put off at the next station and a local
inquest held. The verdict would be heart disease; enough money would
be found in his pocket to bury him; and so the matter would be dropped.
"I want you to promise, Don," ran on Barstow, "for I tell you that it's
either a rest or the hospital for you. You have nervous prostration
written big all over your face. I know how hard it is to make the
initial effort to pull out when your brain is all wound up, but you 'll
regret it if you don't. And you 'll like the crowd, Don. Lindsey is a
hearty fellow, who hasn't anything to do but live--but he does that
well. He's clean and square as a granite corner-stone. It will do you
good to mix in with him.
"And his boat is a corker! He spent a quarter of a million on it, and
he 's got a French cook that would make a dead man eat. He 'll put fat
on your bones, Don, and Lindsey will make you laugh. You don't laugh
enough, Don. You 're too serious. And if you have such weather as we
've had this week you 'll come back with a spirit that will boost your
law practice double."
He felt of Donaldson's arm. It was thin and flabby.
"Good Heavens--here, feel of mine!"
Donaldson grasped it with his weak fingers. It was beastly thick and
firm.
"What time is it?" he asked.
"It is twenty minutes of ten. Is time so important to you?"
"I must get down-town before long."
"Rot! Why don't you drop your business here and now. Let things rip."
"Where 's the dog?" demanded Donaldson. The pup was out of sight. He
felt strangely frightened. He got up and looked all about the room.
"Where 's he gone?" he demanded again.
Barstow grasped him by the shoulder.
"You must pull yourself together," he said seriously. "You 're heading
for a worse place than the hospital."
"But where the devil has he gone? He was here a minute ago, was n't
he?"
"Easy, easy," soothed Barstow. "Hold tight!"
"Find him, won't you, Barstow? Won't you find him?"
To quiet him Barstow whistled. The dog pounded his tail on the floor
under the lounge.
"He 's under there," said Barstow.
"Get him out--get him out where I can see him, won't you?"
Barstow stooped.
"Come, Sandy, come," he called.
Donaldson leaped forward.
"What did you call him?" he demanded as Barstow staggered back.
"Have you gone mad?" shouted Barstow.
"What did you call him?" repeated Donaldson fiercely. "Tell me what
you called him?"
"I called him Sandy. Control yourself, Don. If you let yourself go
this way--it's the end."
"The end?" shouted Donaldson. "Man, it 's the beginning! It's just
the beginning! Sandy--Sandy did n't die after all!"
"Oh, that's what's troubling you," returned Barstow with an air of
relief. "Why did n't you tell me? You thought the dead had risen, eh?
No, the stuff didn't work. The dog only had an attack of acute
indigestion from overeating. But Gad, the coincidence _was_ queer,
when you stop to think of it. I 'd forgotten you left before he came
to."
"Then," cried Donaldson excitedly, "you did n't have any poison after
all!"
"No. I was so busy on more important work that my experiments with
that stuff must all of them have been slipshod. But it did look for a
minute as though Sandy here had proven it. But, Lord,--it was n't the
poison that did for him--it was his week. His week was too much for
him!"
"Give me your hand, Barstow. Give me your hand. I 'm limp as a rag."
"That's your nerves again. If you were normal, the mere fact that you
thought you saw a spook dog would n't leave you in this shape. Come
over here and sit down."
"Get me some water, old man--get me a long, long drink."
When Barstow handed him the glass, which must have held a pint,
Donaldson trembled so that he could hold it to his lips only by using
both hands, as those with palsy do. He swallowed it in great gulps.
He felt as though he were burning up inside. The room began to swim
around him, but with his hands kneading into the old sofa he warded off
unconsciousness. He must not lose a single minute in blankness. He
must get back to her--get back to her as soon as he could stand. She
was suffering, too, though in another way. He must not let another
burning minute scorch her.
"Perhaps you 'll take my advice now," Barstow was saying, "perhaps you
were near enough the brink that time to listen to me. Tell me I may
ring up Lindsey--tell me now that you 'll go with him."
"Go--away? Go--out to sea?" cried Donaldson.
"Yes. To-morrow morning."
"Why, Lord, man! Lord, man!" he panted, "I--would n't leave New
York--I would n't go out there--for--for a million dollars."
"You damned ass!" growled Barstow.
"I--I would n't--go, if the royal yacht--of the King of England were
waiting for me."
"Some one ought to have the authority to put you in a strait-jacket and
carry you off. I tell you you 're headed for the madhouse, Don!"
Donaldson staggered to his feet. He put his trembling hands on
Barstow's shoulders.
"No," he faltered, "no, I 'm headed for life, for life, Barstow! You
hear me? I 'm headed for a paradise right here in New York."
Barstow felt baffled. The man was in as bad a way as he had ever seen
a man, but he realized the uselessness of combatting that stubborn
will. There was nothing to do but let him go on until he was struck
down helpless. From the bottom of his heart be pitied him. This was
the result of too much brooding alone.
"Peter," he said, "the loneliest place in this world is New York. Are
you going to let it kill you?"
"No! It came near it, but I 've beaten it. I 'm bigger now than the
dear old merciless city. It's mine--down to every dark alley. I 've
got it at my feet, Barstow. It is n't going to kill me, it's going to
make me grow. It is n't any longer my master--it's a good-natured,
obedient servant. New York?" he laughed excitedly. "What is New York
but a little strip of ground underneath the stars?"
"That would sound better if your eyes were clearer and your hand
steadier."
"You 'd expect a man to be battered up a little, would n't you, after a
hard fight? I 've fought the hardest thing in the world there is to
fight--shadows, Barstow, shadows--with the King Shadow itself at their
head."
Was the man raving? It sounded so, but Donaldson's eyes, in spite of
their heaviness, were not so near those of madness as they had been a
moment ago. The startled look had left his face. Every feature stood
out brightly, as though lighted from within. His voice was fuller, and
his language, though obscure, more like that of the old Donaldson.
Barstow was mystified.
"Had n't you better lie down here again?" he suggested.
"I must go, now. What--what time is it, old man?"
"Five minutes past ten."
Donaldson took a deep breath. Time--how it stretched before him like a
flower-strewn path without end. He heard the friendly tick-tock at his
wrists. The minutes were so many jewel boxes, each containing the
choice gift of so many breaths, so many chances to look into her eyes,
so many chances to fulfil duties, so many quaffs of life.
"My watch has run down," he said, with curious seriousness. "I 'm
going to wind it up again. I 'm going to wind it up again, Barstow."
He proceeded to do this as though engaged in some mystic rite.
"May I set it by your watch? I 'd like to set it by your watch,
Barstow."
He adjusted the hands tenderly, again as though it were the act of a
high priest.
"Now," he said, "it's going straight. I shall never let the old thing
run down again. I think it hurts a watch, don't you, Barstow?"
"Yes," answered the latter, amazed at his emphasis upon such
trivialities.
"Now," he said, "I must hurry. Where's my hat? Oh, there it is. And
Sandy--where's Sandy?"
The dog crawled out at once at the sound of his name, and he stooped to
pet him a moment.
"I don't suppose you 'd sell Sandy, would you, Barstow?"
"I 'll give him to you, if you 'll take him off. I have n't a fit
place to keep him."
"May I take him now? May I take him with me?"
"Yes--if you'll come back to me to-morrow and report how you are."
"I 'll do it. I 'll be here to-morrow."
He cuddled the dog into his arm and held out his hand.
"Don't worry about me, old man. Just a little rattled that's all. But
fit as a fiddle; strong as a moose, even if I don't look it as you do!"
Barstow took his hand, and when Donaldson left, stood at the head of
the stairs anxiously watching him make his way to the street, hugging
the dog tightly to his side.