IX

With a fiendish scheme in the back of his head and with a most

unpleasant smile on his face, Kenyon went over to the sideboard. He

brought out two glasses. In one he mixed a whiskey high-ball and in the

other he poured a concoction of neat whiskey and brandy, adding

everything else that his bottles contained,--a mixture calculated to

dull the senses even of the most hardened drinker. Then he waited--still

with this unpleasant smile upon his face.

When Peter came in he looked tired and pale. His boots were covered with

dust and there were beads of perspiration on his forehead. "I saw that

you were up," he said, "so I whistled. If you hadn't called out I should

have gone home. Hope you don't mind."

"Mind!" cried Kenyon. "I never was so glad to see anybody in my life.

You look like a tramp. Where've you been?"

Peter threw his hat on the sofa and sat down heavily. "I wasn't in the

mood to go home to dinner. I've been walking hard ever since I saw you.

God knows where I've been. At one time I stood under the apartment-house

in Gramercy Park. It's a wonder I didn't go up and have it out again

with Ranken Townsend. But it wouldn't have been any use."

"Not the smallest," said Kenyon. "You'd only have given him the

satisfaction of standing on his hind-legs and preaching to you. Will you

have something to eat?"

Peter shook his head.

"Well, then, have a drink." And he put the poison in front of Peter. "I

was going to drink to myself,--a rather dull proceeding alone. Now you

can join me. On your feet, Peter, old man, and with no heel-taps, I give

you 'the new Peer! The most decorative member of England's

aristocracy,--Nicholas Augustus Fitzhugh Kenyon, Eighth Earl of

Shropshire, master of Thrapstone-Wynyates--the man without a shilling!'

Let it go!"

Peter stood up, clinked his friend's glass with his own, emptied it and

set it down. "Good Lord!" he said, with a frightful grimace. "What in

thunder was that?"

Kenyon burst into a derisive laugh. "'Some drink,' as you say over here.

Away goes your water-wagon, Master Peter. Off you come from your self

made pedestal. Drunk and incapable will be the words that will presently

be very fitly applied to you, my immaculate friend." And he laughed

again, as though it were a great joke. It would do him good to see Peter

"human," as he called it, for once, to satisfy his sense of revenge--to

pay out Dr. Guthrie for his cursed interference.

Peter was glad to get back to his chair. "I don't care what happens to

me," he said. "What does it matter? I've got nothing to live for--a

father who doesn't care a damn what becomes of me, and a girl who's

given me up without a struggle."

He had had nothing to eat since the middle of the day. He was mentally

and physically weary. Although he was unaware of the fact, he had

caught a severe chill. It was not surprising that the horrible

concoction which Kenyon had deliberately mixed went straight to his

head.

Everything vile lying at the bottom of Kenyon's nature had been stirred

up. At that moment he cared nothing for his friend's repeated

generosity, his consistent loyalty and his golden friendship. With a

sort of diabolical desire to amuse himself and see humiliated in front

of him the man who had stuck to his principles so grimly, he filled his

glass again, to make certainty doubly certain. "This time," he cried,

"I'll give you another toast. Come on, now. On your feet again, and

drink to 'that most charming family, the Guthries, and in particular to

the eldest son--to the dear, good boy who has run straight and never

been drunk, and has treated women with such noble chivalry. In a word,

to Peter, the virgin man.'" He raised his glass, and so did Peter. This

time the stuff almost choked him and he set his glass down only half

empty. But he put on a brave front and sat up straight, laughing a

little. "Nice rooms, these," he said. "Large and airy. Bit nicer than

our first rooms at Oxford, eh?" How different this hideous poison made

him look. Already he was like a fine building blurred by mist.

"It's extraordinary what you dry heroes can do when you try," said

Kenyon. "All I hope is that you'll come face to face with your fond

parent presently when you fumble your way into your beautiful home." He

bent down and picked up his photographs and went on talking as though to

himself. "Yes, there's some satisfaction in making others pay. I've

tried it before, and know. I remember that plebeian little hunx at

Oxford who was going into the Church. His name was Jones,--or something

of the sort. I think he was a damned Welshman. He once called me a 'card

sharp.' I didn't forget it. The first night he turned up in his Parson's

clothes I doped him and he woke up next morning in the gutter. I loved

it. Now, then, Peter, give me a hand with these things and bring them

across the passage to my bedroom." He pointed to some books and left the

room with his photographs.

Peter got up unsteadily and rocked to and fro. He picked up the books as

he was directed and staggered after his friend. He lurched into the

bedroom and stood in the doorway, supporting himself. "I'm--I'm drunk,"

he said, thickly. "Hopelessly drunk. Wha--what the devil have you done

to me?"

Kenyon burst out laughing. Many times he had threatened to do this for

his friend, whose attitude of consistent healthiness and simplicity had

always irritated him. He delighted at that moment in seeing Peter all

befogged and helpless and as wholly unable to look after himself as

though he were a baby.

"Now you'd better go," he said sharply. He was tired with the episode.

"I'm sick of the Guthries! Go home and cling to your bed while it chases

round the room. I'll have mercy on you however to this extent. I'll put

you in a taxi. There's sure to be one outside the hotel down the street.

Come on, you hulking ex-Oxford man. Lean on me. Rather a paradox, isn't

it? Hitherto I've always leaned on you." He got his visitor's hat and

jammed it on his head, all cock-eyed. And then, still talking and

jibeing and sneering, he led the uncertain Peter down-stairs.

There were two taxicabs drawn up outside the hotel to which Kenyon had

referred. He shouted and waved his hand. A chauffeur mounted his box,

manoeuvred the car around and drove up, glad to get a fare.

As he did so, a night butterfly flitted past, on her way home. She had

had apparently an unsuccessful evening, for she stopped at the sight of

these two men. Her rather pretty, thin, painted face wore an eager,

anxious look. "Hello, dearie!" she said, and touched Kenyon on the arm.

"By Jove!" said Kenyon to himself. "By Jove!"

He was struck with a new inspiration. He had made his friend drunk.

Good! Now he would send him off with a woman of the streets. That would

complete his evening's work in the most artistic fashion, and render

Peter human at last. And who could tell? It might hit the Doctor fair

and square,--"the tactless, witless, provincial fool."

"Wait a second," he said to the girl, and with the able assistance of

the driver put the almost inanimate and poisoned Peter into the cab.

Then he turned. The night bird was eyeing him with a curious

wistfulness. She was too smartly dressed and the white tops of her high

boots gleamed sarcastically. "Well, dearie?"

"There's a customer for you," said Kenyon, jerking his finger towards

the cab. "Take him home. He has money in his pocket. Help yourself."

The girl gave the driver her address--which was somewhere in the

Sixties--and then, with a little chuckle, jumped in and drew the door to

behind her with a bang that echoed through the sleeping street.

The cab drove away, and Kenyon's laugh went after it.

He was revenged.

X

But for the chauffeur, a burly and obliging Irishman, Nellie Pope's

unwilling and unconscious customer would never have reached her rooms.

They were on the top floor of a brown-stone house which had no elevator.

The struggle to earn his own daily bread made the chauffeur sympathetic.

So he got Peter over his shoulder, as though he were a huge sack, and

carried him step by step up the narrow, ill-lit, echoing staircase. On

the top landing he waited, breathing hard, while the girl opened the

door with her latch-key.

"Where'll I put him?"

"Bring 'im into the bedroom," said the girl. "I'm sure I'm obliged to

you for the trouble you've taken, mister. You'll 'ave a glass of beer

before you go down, won't you?"

"Sure!"

He lumped Peter on to the bed with an exclamation of relief. It groaned

beneath his dead weight. Mopping his brow and running his fingers

through a shock of thick, dry hair, the Irishman looked down at the

great body of his own customer's evening catch. "I guess I've seen a

good many drunks before," he said, "but this feller's fairly paralyzed.

It's a barrel he must have had, or perhaps he's shot himself with one of

them needle things. Anyway, he's a fine-looking chap."

Nellie Pope, who had heard these remarks as she was pouring out a bottle

of beer,--it was one of those apartments in which every sound carries

from room to room and in which when you are seated in the kitchen it is

possible to hear a person cleaning his teeth in the bathroom,--went in

and stood at the elbow of the chauffeur. Switching on a light over the

bed she peered into Peter's face. Her own lost most of its prettiness

under the glare. There were hollows and sharpnesses here and there, the

roots of the hair round her temples were darker than the too-bright gold

of the rest of it. There was, however, something kind, and even a little

sweet about her English cockney face and shrewd eyes. "Yes 'e's a fine

looking chap, isn't 'e,--a bit of a giant, too, and looks like a

gentleman. Poor boy, I wonder what that feller did to 'im!" She put her

hand on Peter's head and drew it back quickly. "'E's got a fever, I

should think. It looks as if I should 'ave to play nurse to-night. Oh, I

beg pardon, mister, 'ere's your beer."

The Irishman took the glass, held it up against the light, made a

curious Kaffir-like click with his tongue and threw back his head. "I

guess that went down fine," said he. "One dollar and ten cents from

you, Miss, and I'll make no charge for extras." He held out a great

horny hand.

Nellie Pope opened her imitation gold bag. "Bin out o' luck lately," she

said. "Don't know whether I've got--No, I 'aven't. Oh, I know!" With a

little laugh she bent over Peter again and hunted him over for some

money. Finding a small leather case she opened it. It contained a wad of

bills. With a rather comical air of haughty unconcern she handed the

chauffeur two dollars. "Keep the change," she said.

He laughed, pocketed the money, handed back the glass and went off,

shutting the door behind him.

Miss Pope, who had a tidy mind as well as an economical nature, took the

glass into the kitchen and finished the bottle herself. And then,

without removing her hat and gloves she sat down and counted the money

that was contained in the case. "One hundred and twenty-five dollars,"

she said. "Some little hevening!"

She put the case into her bag, where it lay among a handkerchief,

steeped in a too-pungent scent, a small, round box of powder, a stick of

lip salve, and a few promiscuous dimes. Then she took off her hat--a

curious net-like thing round which was wound two bright feathers--her

coat and her gloves. The latter she blew out tenderly, almost with

deference. They were white kid. All these she put very carefully on a

scrupulously clean dresser. Singing a little song she arranged a meal

for herself on the table,--having first laid a cloth. Bread, butter and

sardines made their appearance, with the remains of a chocolate cake

which had been greatly to the taste of her last night's customer, who

had not been, however, a very generous person. Extremely hungry, she sat

down and, with the knowledge that her purse was full, laid on the butter

with a more careless hand than usual. While she ate she enjoyed the

bright dialogue of Robert Chambers in a magazine which, having first

broken its back in order to keep it open, she propped up against a bowl.

Half way through the meal, she jumped up suddenly. "'Ere!" she said.

"You can't leave that poor boy like that, you careless cat, and 'im

lying with a fever!" She went swiftly into the bedroom, and once more

stood looking down at the inert form of poor old Peter. Then she laughed

at the difficulty of taking off his clothes, and with a shrug of her

shoulders started pluckily at his boots. She hung the coat and waistcoat

over the back of one of the chairs,--there were only two,--and having

folded the trousers with great care, returned to her supper. It was

after two o'clock when finally she crept quietly into bed.