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Page 67
Jimmie, like a good Samaritan, promptly rescued his friend and took
him to his own chambers in the Albany, as he was obviously unfit to go
elsewhere. Bertie demurred at first, but his mood soon changed, and he
became pliant and sullen. He roused a little when he found himself
indoors, and demanded a drink. That being firmly refused, he muttered
some incoherent words, flung himself down on a big couch in Jimmie's
sitting-room, and lapsed into a drunken sleep.
Jimmie threw a rug over him, locked up the whisky, and went off to bed.
His first thought, when he woke about nine the next morning, was of
his guest. Hearing footsteps in the outer room, he hurriedly got into
dressing-gown and slippers and opened the communicating door. He was not
prepared for what he saw. Bertie stood by the window, with the dull gray
light on his haggard face and disordered hair, his crushed shirt-front
and collar. A revolver, taken from a nearby cabinet, was in his hand. He
was about to raise it to his forehead.
Jimmie was across the room at a bound, and, striking his friend's arm
down, he sent the weapon clattering to the floor.
"Good God!" he cried. "What were you going to do?"
"End it all," gasped Bertie. He dropped into a chair and gave way to a
burst of tears, which he tried hard to repress.
"What does it mean?" exclaimed Jimmie, breathing quick and deep. "Are
you mad?"
Bertie lifted a ghastly, distorted face.
"It means ruin, old chap," he replied. "That's the plain truth. I wish
you had let me alone."
"Come, this won't do, you know," said Jimmie. "You are not yourself
this morning, and I don't wonder, after the condition I found you in
last night. Things always look black after a spree. You exaggerate, of
course, when you talk about ruin. You are all unstrung, Bertie. Tell me
your troubles, and I'll do what I can to help you out of them."
Bertie shuddered as his eyes fell on the pistol at his feet.
"It's awfully good of you, old fellow," he answered huskily, "but you
can't help me."
"How do you know that? Come, out with your story. Make a clean breast of
it!"
Moved by his friend's kind appeal, the wretched young man confessed his
troubles, speaking in dull, hopeless tones. It was the old story--a
brief career on the road to ruin, from start to finish. A woman was at
the bottom of it--when is it otherwise? Bertie had not reformed when he
had the chance; Flora, the chorus-girl of the Frivolity, had exercised
too strong an influence over him. His income would scarcely have kept
her in flowers, and to supply her with jewels and dinners and a hundred
other luxuries, as well as to repay money lost at cards, he had plunged
deeper into the books of Benjamin and Company, hoping each time that some
windfall would stave off disaster. Disregarding the advice of a few
sincere friends, he had continued his mad course of dissipation. And
now the blow had fallen--sooner than he had reason to expect. A bill for
a large amount was due that very day, and Benjamin and Company refused
to renew it; they demanded both interest and principal, and would give
no easier terms.
"You'd better let me have that," Bertie concluded, desperately, pointing
to the pistol.
Jimmie kicked the weapon under the table, put his hands deep into the
pockets of his dressing gown, and whistled thoughtfully.
"Yes, it's bad," he said. "So you've gone to the Jews! You ought to have
known better--but that's the way with you chaps who are fed with silver
spoons. I'm not a saint myself--"
"Are you going to preach?" put in Bertie, sullenly.
"No; my little lecture is over. Cheer up and face the music, my boy.
It's not as bad as you think. Surely your father will get you out of
the scrape."
"Do you suppose I would tell him?" Bertie cried, savagely. "That would
be worse than--well, you know what I was going to do. It's just because
of the governor that I can't bear to face the thing. He has paid my
debts three times before, and he vowed that if I ran up any more bills
he would ship me off to one of his ranches in Western America. He will
keep his word, too."
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