"It's tough on the little girl," muttered the Watermelon. He sank into
a chair and stretched out his long legs with the weather-stained
trousers and dirty, broken shoes. "Oh, mama, I'm tired. Been hoofing
it since sun-up yesterday with hardly a stop, I wanted to see the kid
so."
"Well, go and get drunk," returned Bartlett. "And then you can see her."
The Watermelon frowned. "See here, I don't drink, necessarily. I'm not
a brand to be plucked from the burning, a sheep strayed from the fold.
The whisky bottle wasn't my undoing and didn't make me take to the
highway. I'm not fallen. I was always down, I guess. I hate work; I
hate worry and trouble, slaving like a Swede all day for just enough
money to be an everlasting cheap guy. I like leisure and time to
develop my own soul." He waved his hand in airy imitation of James.
"That's all right," said Bartlett. "But get drunk. If she can stand
you soused, she can stand you sober. She has got to know what she's
getting, if she decides to take you after all."
The Watermelon's tired face grew a bit whiter under the tan and beard.
He shrugged hopelessly and rose. "All right, if you say so. I hope to
hell it will kill her love on the spot and she won't suffer for it
afterward. I suppose it will." He started for the door and paused, one
hand on the knob. "Shall I have it on you?" he asked with a smile.
"I'm broke."