He was an absurd figure, not more than five feet high, in his black
broadcloth suit and string tie, as he faced McCartney's blazing eyes,
and the latter laughed at him.
"I will fast enough. But you see I'm having a sensation--_living_. I'm
doing good. Oh, yes, I am. If not to you, at least to myself. Do you
think I'll ever forget little 'Cathie'? God! How I could have loved a
real child! And I've only a cat." He laughed again. "I don't blame you
for thinking me crazy--even you. Come, now, wasn't my picture of the
phthisic wife and moaning child worth a place on the line--I mean,
wasn't it good, eh? Worth more than two beggarly quarters? It gave me a
thrill--what I need--it'll keep me alive for another twenty-four hours,
without this." He held up a nickel-plated hypodermic syringe. It shone
in the gaslight, and the old man started back and held out his hands.
"Don't shoot!" he cried in senile terror.
"Carrion!" cried McCartney. "Why do I waste my time on you? Why? Because
I'm in your debt. I owe you little Catherine. I shall never forget her.
And you, you--you are her foster father! God forbid!"
The old man sat down resignedly at the extreme side of the table.
"By God, I pity you!" exclaimed the lean man. "Do you hear that? _I_
pity _you_--_I_!--a wretched, drugged, wilted, useless bundle of nerves
twisted into the image of a man; a chap born with a silver spoon, with
gifts, who tossed them all into the gutter--threw 'a pearl away richer
than all his tribe'; a miserable creature who can't live without this"
(he pressed the needles into his wrist), "and yet I wouldn't change with
you! I'm more of a man than you. My very wants are sweeter than any joys
your brutish senses can ever feel.
"O would there were a heaven to hear!
O would there were a hell to fear!
Dear Son of God, in mercy give
My soul to flames, but let me live!
"You don't know what that means! Haven't the vaguest idea. You're a
mummy. You'll be the same ten thousand years from now. I suppose you
think I made it up, eh?
"I am discouraged by the street,
The pacing of monotonous feet.
"That's all _you_ want. You couldn't understand anything else, and yet
it's my torture, and my salvation!"
The glow came back into McCartney's eyes and he repeated:
"Yes, that picture of little Catherine was worth more than two quarters.
It ought to have been good for twenty dollars. It's worth more than that
to me."
McCartney's voice had grown strong and clear.
The old fellow looked at him sharply and changed his tone. He must get
this madman out of his house. He must humor him.
"Come, come, that's all right. Cheer up! Why, I had a little girl of my
own once."
McCartney pierced him through and through with swimming eyes.
"And her memory was only worth two miserable quarters? You lie, you
wretched old man, you lie!"
The old fellow started back. The door banged. McCartney was gone.