THE LITTLE RED DEVIL
Harkins looked up from his loaded desk, glancing at the clock. It was
after ten. The city editor frowned heavily and called to Fatty, who was
just passing him on his way out.
"Stearns," he inquired, "have you seen O'Byrn? He has not reported, nor
did he ask off for this evening."
"Perhaps he's sick, sir," nervously volunteered Fatty, who knew better
but did not intend to give his co-worker away. "Seems to me he looked
kind o' peaked yesterday."
"He could easily have sent word," doubtfully rejoined Harkins. "However,
you might inquire and let me know. Or, if you see him, send him in
here," and he turned to his desk.
Fatty went out. "Send him in here!" he chuckled grimly. "If he's stayed
with that bunch he was with at six o'clock, Harkins would pass him on to
the gold cure."
All the staff, save Harkins, knew it by this time. Micky, after a season
of well doing that was protracted for him, had broken out again in one
of his periodical sprees. It was not of the innocuous variety of
indulgence that affords satiety in a single evening, leaving the victim
remorseful and fortified against another lapse for an indefinite time.
Of such are the fortunate, who are immune from the wiles of a sleepless,
diabolical appetite. With Micky it was different. To resist a craving
which never really slumbered meant real effort and unceasing vigilance.
To succumb meant usually an unrecking debauch of days, while the little
red devil worked its sweet will with him, to finally leave him spent and
shaken, a temporary sodden wreck. This was the grim enemy, coupled with
an unreasoning love of roving, that had made him, rarely talented as he
was, a shifting vagrant of the news. It had landed him, ragged and
unkempt, at the door of the Courier office. Now it bade fair to cast him
forth again, shipwrecked at this most prosperous point of his fortunes,
to try once more a dreary, uncertain future, with the gibing ghosts of
lost opportunities ever at his elbow; with the maddening memory of a
forfeited love, the truest he would ever know, mocking him.
Fatty did not inquire for Micky at his lodgings, nor did he attempt to
find him and give him Harkins' message. He omitted the first because he
was well aware that Micky would not be found there for some time, the
second because he did not care to meet O'Byrn and his crew, for fear
that he would be drawn into the maelstrom. He knew Micky's insistence
and Fatty was cautious. Thirdly, he felt assured that Harkins would be
advised of the cause of Micky's absence in due time, and Stearns had no
desire to figure as a bird of ill omen. So he went about his tasks and
discreetly dodged places that might perchance hold the uproarious O'Byrn
and his riotous cronies.
Fortune was against Stearns, however, for it led him, in quest of an
elusive item, into the rotunda of the Palace hotel. He met his man
there, hastily secured his story, and started out. The entrance to the
wine room was at one side. There was the sound of revelry within.
As Stearns was about to pass out, the swinging doors of the wine room
were flung open and there appeared, flushed and disheveled, the riotous
O'Byrn. At sight of Fatty, who gasped and made a wild bolt to escape,
Micky emitted a whoop of triumph and swooped down upon him. He captured
him handily and despite his desperate struggles propelled him in
headlong fashion into the wine room, for the Irishman was as wiry as he
was slender. Stearns found himself in the center of a bibulous throng
which included newspaper men, speedy young sports and a few odd bits of
_debris_, picked up on the rising flood. They crowded about Fatty, some
clamoring for introductions, some making facetious comment on the manner
of his entrance, still others rendering him tribute in dubious song. For
a moment the din was indescribable, while the "chemist" made ineffectual
appeals for order. Then Micky managed to make himself heard above the
babel in a demand for quiet.
"Fatness," said he, with a wave of his hand, "these are the Indians.
Indians, this are Fatty. Fatty, the Indians are drunk. Indians, Fatty
ain't drunk now but he must be made so. Does it go?" A chorus of
affirmative yells made answer.
"Now, Fatty," continued O'Byrn earnestly, "in meeting this little wish
of ours for your subsequent comfort, be a gentleman. Don't show a
grasping spirit, like the two meanest men on record. Never heard of 'em?
Well, one of 'em was asked by a friend to have a drink. Asked what he'd
take he waited till the buyer had ordered a whisky and then says, 'Gimme
two beers,' so as to get his ten cents' worth. Other one of 'em was
worse 'n that. Friend asked him what he'd have, an' says he, 'If you
don't mind, I'd rather have the money.' No, Indians, Fatty ain't like
that. Ask him what he'll have, and the modesty of his demands would put
those graspin' dubs to shame."
"Gee, Micky," gurgled Stearns, trying to squirm away, "I ain't got time,
honest I ain't. I've got an assignment."
The crowd closed in, holding him securely. Micky mused with corrugated
brow. Thus far the only evidences of his indulgence were an unusual
sparkle of the eye, a crimsoned countenance and a bewildering flow of
language.
"'Assignment,'" cogitated Micky, "what does that mean? Where have I
heard that word? Let me forget before I remember already. Let us drink
to forget. Vat iss, Fatty?"
Fatty gulped despairingly. There was no hope. "Birch beer," he murmured
resignedly. There sounded a universal groan.
"Birch beer!" echoed O'Byrn, in a positive squeal. "I wonder if the
mixer hasn't got some Mellin's food? Siphon some milk into him; do, the
sweet thing! No, I'll tell you what you'll drink, Fatty. It'll be a
Mamie Taylor, with me!"
There was unanimous approval registered in a strident roar. Despite
Stearns' protest the "chemist" was urged to mix him a Mamie, Fatty
finally becoming silenced in meek submission. Resolving to "shake the
bunch" at the first favorable moment, he gazed doubtfully at the
seductive mixture in his glass. Micky held up his Mamie and
soliloquized.
"This Mamie is a jade," he remarked, with an air of finality that
effectually settled the matter. "She's that smooth and insinuating, so
agreeable, that it seems as if you could drink her all night, so you
generally do. Plain whisky's more honest. It's got that old, shivery
yah-yah taste to it that keeps warnin' you all the time to sidetrack, so
you're apt to do it before you get telescoped by the D T's. But these
blamed fancy flips are what play the devil with a fellow. They're
come-ons, clear from champagne to ginger ale splits. They taste so
pretty that the next is a necessity, and after that, in the pleasant
salve to the palate, you lose count. Take Mamie here. She's the worst in
the push. You can gauge your capacity in any other line except on her.
She figures her own capacity and the figures always lie, as you realize
next morning. Much is a sufficiency, always. More is a superfluperosity.
"In this connection, Mamie reminds me of a story of an old man up north
who had slipped from grace for some years and never thought any more of
the religious teachings of childhood till trouble switched in, though
that's common enough. But along came a famine time and everyone was
livin' on short commons. The old man was urged to make a family prayer
for some of the necessities. He wasn't used to it and shied
considerable, but it was need that egged him on. Well, he got started O.
K. with 'O Lord, send us a bar'l o' pork. Send us a bar'l o' sugar. Send
us a bar'l o'--o'--pepper--Oh, hell! that's too much pepper!' was the
way he rang off.
"Now that's what I'll be sayin' about Mamie, too much of her, when I
come to, but such is her infernal fascination that--" He broke off with
a wild clutch at Fatty's receding coat tail. Stearns had seized the
favorable moment to escape. He got out before Micky could catch him. As
O'Byrn was about to shoot through the door in pursuit of him, it swung
inward and a familiar figure confronted the little Irishman.
"Well, Micky," remarked Dick dryly, "don't you think you've had enough?
Better come along."
For answer O'Byrn tried to drag Dick to the bar. "Come on, old man," he
shouted. "Get in! There's Mamies to burn."
Dick had heard of his co-worker's outbreak and hurried from the office
in quest of him, chancing to learn where he was. Micky had talked with
him previously, regarding his weakness, and Dick knew what its
uninterrupted continuance would mean.
"Come home, Micky," he urged, "before you get maudlin. Bunk in and get a
good night's rest and you'll be all right for work tomorrow." He led
Micky insistently out of the wine room, unmindful of the protests of
O'Byrn's companions. They passed through the office to the street.
Micky had been quiet for a moment but now his libations reasserted their
influence. He struggled with Dick, voicing sundry curses.
"What d' ye mean?" he demanded. "Let me go, I'm going back. Mind your
own business, can't you?"
"Shut up!" growled Dick fiercely. "Can't you see people are looking at
us? Close your face and come along like a gentleman, for, I tell you,
you're going home!"
Then something happened. Before Micky's haggard eyes appeared mistily,
taking swift and tangible substance, a girl's face, young and lovely,
just now convulsed with horror. Then it was gone, leaving a leaden
weight in Micky's breast, while the vapors rose sluggishly from his
benumbed brain. Reason, shrinking and ashamed, looked out from his hot
eyes. He braced defiantly though hopelessly.
"It's all right, Dick, I'll go home," he said in a strange low tone and
they walked in silence down the street.