Part 25 (1/2)

”Here's how, friend Jim!”

Whatever Mr. Hackley's foibles, he was a man at his cups. His platform was the straight article uncontaminated by ice or flabby sparkling-water; and chasers and the like of those he left to schoolboys.

”Ain't took a drink for days,” he said, holding up his gla.s.s to the electric light and squinting through it. ”Cut it out religious, I have.

Been settin' around the house, an' settin', under physic'an's orders, tryin' fer to get my health back so's I could go to moldin' agin. But Lordamussy, what's the use of torkin'! I ain't no more fitten fer work than a noo-born baby. Well, here's luck, Ryan!”

He set his gla.s.s down and involuntarily smacked his lips. The fiery liquid percolated through him down to his very toes. He felt better at once, more ambitious, less conscious of his const.i.tution. And simultaneously, he lost something of that indolent good-nature which was the badge of all his sober hours.

Ryan regarded him with friendly anxiety. ”You gotter be more careful with yourself, honest! Here--strengthen your holt a little. One little swallow ain't no help to a man as beat out as you are.”

”As yer like, Dennis,” said Mr. Hackley, listlessly. ”What I reely need is a good long rest, like in a 'orspittle.”

Kindly Mr. Ryan filled the small gla.s.s almost to the brim; and Hackley, though he had modestly stipulated for ”on'y a drap” tossed it all off thirstily at a single practised toss.

”That'll fix you up nice. But ain't I glad,” said his host with a sly chuckle, ”that n.o.body sees you taking these drinks on the quiet, which _we_ know you need bad for your health.”

Mr. Hackley set down his gla.s.s again, this time with something of a bang. ”How's that?” he demanded suspiciously.

Ryan laughed deprecatingly. While doing so, he manipulated the tall dark bottle again.

”Shuh!” said he. ”It's only the boys' fun, of course. Don't you mind _them_, Jim.”

”What're you drivin' at?” asked Hackley, bristling a bit. ”If you got anything worth sayin' to me, spit it out plain, I say.”

”Well,” laughed Ryan, ”if some of the boys was to see you in here putting away a harmless drink or so, o' course they'd say that you was gettin' up your Dutch courage. He, he!”

”Dutch courage!” cried Mr. Hackley, indignantly. ”An' wot the h.e.l.l fer?”

”s.h.!.+ Not so loud, Jim. Why, it's only their little joke, o' course.

They'd say you was gettin' up your nerve to meet them two friends of yours from New York! Hey? He, he!”

”Wot friends?” asked Hackley again, hotly.

Ryan observed the mounting color on the other's cheek and brow, and his eye, which was like a small, glossy shoe-b.u.t.ton, gleamed.

”Why, that 'un that killed that dog o' yours, and put you to sleep before the crowd, and that 'un that sent Mamie Orrick to Gawd knows where. But shucks! Drop it, Jim. I wouldn't have allooded to it, on'y I thought you'd see the fun of the thing.”

It takes a philosopher to perceive humor in taunts at his own personal courage, and Mr. Hackley, with three drinks of the Ottoman's choicest beneath his tattered waistcoat, was not that kind of man at all.

He leaned forward against the bar with a belligerence suggesting that he wished to push it over, pinning his pleasant-spoken host to the wall, and pounded the top of it till the gla.s.ses tingled.

”Fill her up with the same!” he ordered loudly, looking suddenly, and for the first time, very much like the rough-looking customer who had tackled Peter Maginnis in defense of his dog. ”An' I'll have you know, _Mister_ Ryan--I'll have you know, my fine, big, bouncin' buck, that Jim Hackley ain't afeared of anythink that walks.”

Ryan filled her up again, though this time more conservatively. He was a keen man and an excellent judge of what was enough.

”Shuh! Don't _I_ know that, Jim! Why, after that big bloke licked the stuffin' out of you the other night, the boys said: 'Well, that's the last o' that little differculty! Jim Hackley'll never foller that up none,' they says. And what'd I say?”

”Well, what'd you say?”