“He came in on my account, sir,” I said, getting up and going forward to
the desk. “He’s trying to keep me straight.”
“That is, he’ll keep straight if you do?”
“That’s it, sir, exactly.”
He continued to write, speaking without looking up at us.
“Then I can’t think of anything more to your credit, Mr.—Mr. Lovey—is
that it?”
“I don’t want no mister, Your Honor—not now I don’t.”
“When a man takes so fine a stand as you’re taking toward this young
fellow he’s a mister to me. I respect him and treat him with respect. I
see that we’re meant to understand each other and get on together.”
Poor Lovey had nothing to say. The prospect of temptation and fall being
removed by his own heroism rendered him both proud and miserable at once.
When the writing was finished the kind eyes were again lifted toward me.
Though the inspection was so mild, it pierced me through and through. It
still seemed to cover me as he said: “You needn’t tell me your real name
if you don’t want to—but in general we prefer it.”
“I’ll tell anything you ask me, sir. My name is Frank Melbury.” In order
to conceal nothing, I added, “As a matter of fact, it’s Francis Worsley
Melbury Melbury; but I use it in the shortened form I’ve given you.”
“Thanks. You’re English?”
“I’m a Canadian. My father is Sir Edward Melbury, of Montreal.”
“Married?”
“No, sir. Single.”
“And you have a profession?”
“Architect.”
“Have you worked at that profession here in New York?”
I gave him the names of the offices in which from time to time I had
found employment.
“And would you like to work at it again?”
“I should, sir.”
“As a matter of fact, we have a number of architects, not exactly in
the club, but friendly toward it, and on intimate terms with us. I’ll
introduce you to some of them when—when you get on your feet. How old
are you? Thirty?”
“Thirty-one.”
For some two minutes he went on writing.
“How long since you’ve been drinking?”
“My last drink was three days ago.”
“And how long since you’ve been actually drunk?”
“About a week.”
“And before that?”
“It was pretty nearly all the time.”
“It’s a great advantage to you to come to us sober. It means that you
know what you’re doing and are to some extent counting the cost. Men will
take any kind of vow when they’re”—his glance traveled involuntarily to
the back room—“when they’re coming off a spree. The difficulty is to make
them keep their promises when they’ve got over the worst of it. In your
case—”
“I’ve got a motive, sir.”
“Then so much the better.”