SHE fell asleep, her head resting upon her hand, her elbow on the arm of the chair.She awoke with a shiver; she opened her eyes to find him gazing at her.The eyes of both shifted instantly."Wouldn't you like some whiskey?" she asked.
"Thanks," replied he, and his unchanged voice reminded her vividly of his old self, obscured by the beard and by the dissipated look.
She took the bottle from its concealment in the locked washstand drawer, poured him out a large drink.When she came back where he could see the whiskey in the glass, his eyes glistened and he raised himself first on his elbow, then to a sitting position.His shaking hand reached out eagerly and his expectant lips quivered.He gulped the whiskey down.
"Thank you," he said, gazing longingly at the bottle as he held the empty glass toward her.
"More?"
"I _would_ like a little more," said he gratefully.
Again she poured him a large drink, and again he gulped it down."That's strong stuff," said he."But then they sell strong stuff in this part of town.The other kind tastes weak to me now."He dropped back against the pillows.She poured herself a drink.Halfway to her lips the glass halted."I've got to stop that," thought she, "if I'm going to do anything for him or for myself." And she poured the whiskey back and put the bottle away.The whole incident took less than five seconds.
It did not occur that she was essaying and achieving the heroic, that she had in that instant revealed her right to her dream of a career high above the common lot.
"Don't _you_ drink?" said he.
"I've decided to cut it out," replied she carelessly."There's nothing in it.""I couldn't live without it--and wouldn't."
"It _is_ a comfort when one's on the way down," said she."But I'm going to try the other direction--for a change."She held a box of cigarettes toward him.He took one, then she; she held the lighted match for him, lit her own cigarette, let the flame of the match burn on, she absently watching it.
"Look out! You'll burn yourself!" cried he.
She started, threw the match into the slop jar."How do you feel?" inquired she.
"Like the devil," he answered."But then I haven't known what it was to feel any other way for several months except when Icouldn't feel at all." A long silence, both smoking, he thinking, she furtively watching him."You haven't changed so much," he finally said."At least, not on the outside.""More on the outside than on the inside," said she."The inside doesn't change much.There I'm almost as I was that day on the big rock.And I guess you are, too--aren't you?""The devil I am! I've grown hard and bitter.""That's all outside," declared she."That's the shell--like the scab that stays over the sore spot till it heals.""Sore spot? I'm nothing but sore spots.I've been treated like a dog."And he proceeded to talk about the only subject that interested him--himself.He spoke in a defensive way, as if replying to something she had said or thought."I've not got down in the world without damn good excuse.I wrote several plays, and they were tried out of town.But we never could get into New York.I think Brent was jealous of me, and his influence kept me from a hearing.I know it sounds conceited, but I'm sure I'm right.""Brent?" said she, in a queer voice."Oh, I think you must be mistaken.He doesn't look like a man who could do petty mean things.No, I'm sure he's not petty.""Do you know him?" cried Spenser, in an irritated tone.
"No.But--someone pointed him out to me once--a long time ago--one night in the Martin.And then--you'll remember--there used to be a great deal of talk about him when we lived in Forty-third Street.You admired him tremendously.""Well, he's responsible," said Spenser, sullenly."The men on top are always trampling down those who are trying to climb up.
He had it in for me.One of my friends who thought he was a decent chap gave him my best play to read.He returned it with some phrases about its showing talent--one of those phrases that don't mean a damn thing.And a few weeks ago--" Spenser raised himself excitedly--"the thieving hound produced a play that was a clean steal from mine.I'd be laughed at if Iprotested or sued.But I _know_, curse him!"He fell back shaking so violently that his cigarette dropped to the sheet.Susan picked it up, handed it to him.He eyed her with angry suspicion."You don't believe me, do you?" he demanded.
"I don't know anything about it," replied she."Anyhow, what does it matter? The man I met on that show boat--the Mr.
Burlingham I've often talked about--he used to say that the dog that stopped to lick his scratches never caught up with the prey."He flung himself angrily in the bed."You never did have any heart--any sympathy.But who has? Even Drumley went back on me--let 'em put a roast of my last play in the _Herald_--a telegraphed roast from New Haven--said it was a dead failure.
And who wrote it? Why, some newspaper correspondent in the pay of the _Syndicate_--and that means Brent.And of course it was a dead failure.So--I gave up--and here I am....This your room?""Yes."
"Where's this nightshirt come from?"
"It belongs to the friend of the girl across the hall." He laughed sneeringly."The hell it does!" mocked he."Iunderstand perfectly.I want my clothes."
"No one is coming," said Susan."There's no one to come."He was looking round the comfortable little room that was the talk of the whole tenement and was stirring wives and fast women alike to "do a little fixing up." Said he:
"A nice little nest you've made for him.You always were good at that.""I've made it for myself," said she."I never bring men here.""I want my clothes," cried he."I haven't sunk that low, you----!"The word he used did not greatly disturb Susan.The shell she had formed over herself could ward off brutal contacts of languages no less than of the other kinds.It did, however, shock her a little to hear Rod Spenser use a word so crude.
"Give me my clothes," he ordered, waving his fists in a fierce, feeble gesture.
