After breakfast next morning I went to see Chanler. He was sitting up
in bed, and he had changed greatly overnight. His face was puffed and
gray-looking, and the swollen eyelids were parted only enough to
disclose a slit of blood-shot eyes. Dr. Olson was with him,
whisky-glass in hand, but he was watching Chanler shrewdly.
“I’ve got him filled up with bromides,” whispered the doctor to me.
“If we can’t get him to sleep he’ll have the D. T.’s.”
Chanler slowly turned his head toward me and endeavored to open his
eyes wide. The effort was too much for him and his face became
distorted with a drunken smile.
“There he is—li’l Gardy, the foe of rum,” he murmured sleepily. “Model
young man. Gardy, know wha’ I’d like see? Like see you stewed to
zenith. Like see you spiff-iflicated. Oh, wha’ ’n ez’bition you’d be!
Horr’ble, horr’ble!” He shook his head slowly. “Nay, nay! Don’ catch
Gardy spiff-iflicated. Don’ catch Gardy putting things in’s brain to
steal his mouth away, do they, Gard’? Noshirr-rr! Noshir-r! Let George
do ’t, eh, Gardy? Let George—let——”
His head fell forward. With an effort he raised it, but his eyes were
closed.
“Gardy—you—you——”
He collapsed slowly upon the pillow and was sound asleep.
Dr. Olson set his glass down and wiped his forehead.
“That’s good,” he said. “But he’s going to be a very sick man.”
“Of course,” I said. “But now that you have got him asleep we are
going to stop his drinking and get him straightened up.”
The doctor looked at Chanler’s puffed face.
“What’s the use?” he said with a shrug of his thin shoulders.
“Besides, he doesn’t want to do anything of the sort.”
“What he wants doesn’t matter,” I insisted. “He’s got to be
straightened up. What can you do for him?”
The little man looked at me with a weary smile.
“Why this eagerness, Pitt? If I put Chanler on his feet——”
“Then that’s settled,” I interrupted. “You admit you can put him on
his feet, therefore you’ve got to do it. Your word?”
“My word,” he said solemnly, and went to work.
Miss Baldwin was waiting for me as I came from Chanler’s stateroom.
“I saw you just as you went in,” she said. “Well?”
“He’s sleeping now,” I replied. “He’ll be all right—or, at least
better—when he wakes. George will straighten up.”
She looked at me in that wonderful quiet way of hers.
“Are you so loyal to all your friends, Mr. Pitt?” she said.
“George will straighten up,” I repeated. “He is in Dr. Olson’s hands.
He will make amends when he is himself again.”
She turned away, a wistful—perhaps bitter—smile faintly touching her
lips.
“Miss Baldwin!” I cried apologetically. “Have I said anything to hurt
you, to give you pain?”
“You?” she said, smiling brightly. “Of course you haven’t. How could
you think that? I—I merely happened to think of how different George
was a few months ago. No, no! Don’t grow sad out of sympathy, please,
Mr. Pitt. I’m not unhappy. Do I look it? I cared for George. I know it
now. Maybe I could have learned to care for him deeply if he had cared
for me truly. But he didn’t, and I’m glad I found it out.”
“You mustn’t say that, Miss Baldwin. You must give him another chance
when he’s himself again.”
“Loyal Mr. Pitt!” she laughed. “Well, I can scarcely help giving
George another chance, can I? Here on the same yacht with him. Mr.
Pitt, I’ll bet I know what you think of me?”
“And that is?”
“That I’m an awful fool to be here?”