“In your dining-room, Lovey, with all the chauffeurs, there’ll be things
to drink, very likely.”
He put on his melancholy face.
“It won’t make no difference to me, Slim. The Down and Out has got me
bound by so many promises, like, that I can’t take a sip o’ nothink, not
no more than a dead man that’s got a bottle in ’is coffin. I’m one that
can take it or leave it, as I feel inclined.”
“If you’re going to try taking it or leaving it to-morrow I sha’n’t
accept Mrs. Barry’s invitation to dinner.”
The effect was what I had expected.
“You go to the dinner, Slim, my boy, and I’ll let you see me ’ittin’ the
’ay before you starts.”
“But you could hit the hay and get out of bed again.”
“No; because I’ll make you lock the door. I ain’t a-goin’ to ’ave ye ’ave
no hanxiety on my account.”
So we settled it—not that I was to lock him in, but that he was to
guarantee me against being anxious; and I suppose Christian would say
that another bit of victory was scored.
_CHAPTER XV_
A few days later I learned that my father had established a small trust
fund for my benefit, and that the income was to be paid to me quarterly.
He had thus, after all, recognized me as his son, though not on the
footing of his other sons. Each of his other sons would have— But I won’t
go into that. It is enough to say that for every dollar I should receive
Jerry and Jack would have twenty or thirty, and so would my sisters. Even
in my mother’s life interest I was not to have a share when she no longer
needed it.
Among the many sins I have to confess, that of being specially mercenary
is not one. I make this affirmation in order that you may not condemn me
too severely when I say that for days I labored under a sense of outrage.
Mine was the state of mind common among evil-doers who object to paying
the penalty of which they have had fair warning. My father had told me
with his own mouth that on account of certain indulgences which I had
refused to give up he had cut me off altogether. I had chosen to take my
own way and to brave the consequences; and now when the latter proved to
be not so bad as I had been bidden to expect I was indignant.
When I informed Andrew Christian of the bequest I added that I had
practically made up my mind to refuse it. He gave me that look which
always seemed about to tell you a good joke.
“Why do you think he left you anything?”
“I suppose he wanted to feel that if the worse came to the worst I
shouldn’t be quite penniless.”
“But why should he want to feel that?”
“Well, hang it all, sir, when everything is said and done I was his son!”
“You were his son, and he—he cared for you.”
“He cared for me to—to that extent.”
“And considering your attitude toward him, could you expect him to care
for you more?”