Part 11 (1/2)

”No, it's my profession. I'm a sporting prophet.”

Gobion suddenly remembered that he had heard nothing about the ma.s.s of copy that had been sent out some days before.

”Has Mr. Sturtevant been in to-night?” he asked the barmaid.

”No, I haven't seen him for two or three days,” she said.

Gobion went quickly out into the Strand and walked to Sturtevant's rooms. The gas flamed on the dingy staircase, making a hissing noise in the silence, and s.h.i.+ning on the white paint of the names above the door--Mr. Mordaunt Sturtevant, Mr. Thompson Jones, Mr. Gordon.

The ”oak” was open, so Gobion went in, pus.h.i.+ng aside the swing door at the end of the little pa.s.sage.

A strong smell of brandy struck him in the face. He walked in, and looked round the screen by the fire, starting back for a moment with a sick horror of what he saw.

The candles were alight before the looking-gla.s.s over the mantelpiece.

In front of it stood Sturtevant, with his back to Gobion. His thumbs were in the corners of his mouth, and with his first fingers he was pulling down the loose skin under his eyes, making the most ghastly grimaces at his image in the mirror.

Gobion stood still, petrified, and mechanically pressed the spring of his opera hat, which flew out with a loud pop. Sturtevant wheeled round like a shot, shaking with fear. When he saw who was there he gave a great sob of relief and fell into a chair.

”O G.o.d, how you startled me!” he said.

”What on earth's the matter with you?” said Gobion; ”you look as if you were dying.”

The man was not good to look at. His skin was a uniform tint of discoloured ivory, with red wrinkles round the eyes. His lips were dark purple and swollen, his hands shook.

”I'm so glad you've come; I've had a slight touch of D.T., and if you hadn't come in I should have broken out again to-night.”

Gobion calmed him as well as he could, and in about an hour got him into something like ordinary condition.

”And now,” he said, ”how about our copy?”

”By George, I've forgotten all about it; there are probably a lot of letters in the box.”

They got them out. The first one they opened was a collection of personal paragraphs sent in by Gobion, ”Declined with thanks.” The next was a cheque from the _Resounder_ for four guineas, in payment of the ”Gambling at Oxford” article. They went on opening one after the other, and at the end found that they had netted twenty-six pounds.

Sturtevant got excited about it, and wanted to have some more brandy, but Gobion managed to get him to bed, and locked the door, putting the key in his pocket. He built up the fire, took Daudet's _Sappho_ from a shelf, and pa.s.sed the night on the sofa alternately reading and dozing.

It took him three or four days to bring Sturtevant round to something like form, most of which he spent in the Temple, occupying himself by writing the attack on Heath for _The Spy_.

It was the cleverest piece of work he had done, and when it was finished it was with all the pride of an artist that he read it to Sturtevant, and sent it to Blanche Huntley to be typed.

Meanwhile he became at times horribly bored and low-spirited, and each new attack accentuated the next, for he would rush into the lowest forms of amus.e.m.e.nt to find oblivion. In the intervals of coa.r.s.eness he called on Mrs. Picton.

Such society as was open to him soon began to pall, and he spent more and more time at the ”copy shop” or with Sturtevant in the Temple.

These two men, who a few years ago were freshmen at Oxford, sat night after night cursing and blaspheming all that most men hold sacred.

They were colossal in their bitterness.

Sturtevant said once, ”Life is a disease; as soon as we are born we begin to die. I shall die soon from D.T., and you'll write a realistic study for _The Pilgrim_. Perhaps my life was ordained for that end.”