chair. He started toward the door.
'Where are you going?' George demanded.
'Suit case,' came the response. 'Mary'll send the trunk later. I'll be back in a minute.'
The door closed after him. A moment later, struck with sudden suspicion, George was opening the door. He glanced in. His brother stood at a sideboard, in one hand a decanter, in the other hand, bottom up and to his lips, a whisky glass.
Across the glass Al saw that he was observed. It threw him into a panic. Hastily he tried to refill the glass and get it to his lips; but glass and decanter were sent smashing to the floor. He snarled. It was like the sound of a wild beast. But the grip on his shoulder subdued and frightened him. He was being propelled toward the door.
'The suit case,' he gasped. 'It's there in that room. Let me get it.'
'Where's the key?' his brother asked, when he had brought it.
'It isn't locked.'
The next moment the suit case was spread open, and George's hand was searching the contents. From one side it brought out a bottle of whisky, from the other side a flask. He snapped the case to.
'Come on,' he said. 'If we miss one car, we miss that train.'
He went out into the hallway, leaving Al with his wife. It was like a funeral, George thought, as he waited.
His brother's overcoat caught on the knob of the front door and delayed its closing long enough for Mary's first sob to come to their ears. George's lips were very thin and compressed as he went down the steps. In one hand he carried the suit case. With the other hand he held his brother's arm.
As they neared the corner, he heard the electric car a block away, and urged his brother on. Al was breathing hard. His feet dragged and shuffled, and he held back.
'A hell of a brother YOU are,' he panted.
For reply, he received a vicious jerk on his arm. It reminded him of his childhood when he was hurried along by some angry grown-up. And like a child, he had to be helped up the car step. He sank down on an outside seat, panting, sweating, overcome by the exertion. He followed George's eyes as the latter looked him up and down.
'A hell of a brother YOU are,' was George's comment when he had finished the inspection.
Moisture welled into Al's eyes.
'It's my stomach,' he said with self-pity.
'I don't wonder,' was the retort. 'Burnt out like the crater of a volcano. Fervent heat isn't a circumstance.'
Thereafter they did not speak. When they arrived at the transfer point, George came to himself with a start. He smiled. With fixed gaze that did not see the houses that streamed across his field of vision, he had himself been sunk deep in self-pity. He helped his brother from the car, and looked up the intersecting street. The car they were to take was not in sight.
Al's eyes chanced upon the corner grocery and saloon across the way. At once he became restless. His hands passed beyond his control, and he yearned hungrily across the street to the door that swung open even as he looked and let in a happy pilgrim. And in that instant he saw the white-jacketed bartender against an array of glittering glass. Quite unconsciously he started to cross the street.
'Hold on.' George's hand was on his arm.
'I want some whisky,' he answered.
'You've already had some.'
'That was hours ago. Go on, George, let me have some. It's the last day. Don't shut off on me until we get there-God knows it will be soon enough.'
George glanced desperately up the street. The car was in sight.
'There isn't time for a drink,' he said.
'I don't want a drink. I want a bottle.' Al's voice became wheedling. 'Go on, George. It's the last, the very last.'
'No.' The denial was as final as George's thin lips could make it.
Al glanced at the approaching car. He sat down suddenly on the curbstone.
'What's the matter?' his brother asked, with momentary alarm.
'Nothing. I want some whisky. It's my stomach.'
'Come on now, get up.'
George reached for him, but was anticipated, for his brother sprawled flat on the pavement, oblivious to the dirt and to the curious glances of the passers-by. The car was clanging its gong at the crossing, a block away.
'You'll miss it,' Al grinned from the pavement. 'And it will be your fault.'
George's fists clenched tightly.
'For two cents I'd give you a thrashing.'
'And miss the car,' was the triumphant comment from the pavement.
George looked at the car. It was halfway down the block. He looked at his watch. He debated a second longer.
'All right,' he said. 'I'll get it. But you get on that car. If you miss it, I'll break the bottle over your head.'
He dashed across the street and into the saloon. The car came in and stopped. There were no passengers to get off. Al dragged himself up the steps and sat down. He smiled as the conductor rang the bell and the car started. The swinging door of the saloon burst open. Clutching in his hand the suit case and a pint bottle of whisky, George started in pursuit. The conductor, his hand on the bell cord, waited to see if it would be necessary to stop. It was not. George swung lightly aboard, sat down beside his brother, and passed him the bottle.
'You might have got a quart,' Al said reproachfully.
He extracted the cork with a pocket corkscrew, and elevated the bottle.
'I'm sick… my stomach,' he explained in apologetic tones to the passenger who sat next to him.
In the train they sat in the smoking-car. George felt that it was imperative. Also, having successfully caught the train, his heart softened. He felt more kindly toward his brother, and accused himself of unnecessary harshness. He strove to atone by talking about their mother, and sisters, and the little affairs and interests of the family. But Al was morose, and devoted himself to the bottle. As the time passed, his mouth hung looser and looser, while the rings under his eyes seemed to puff out and all his facial muscles to relax.
'It's my stomach,' he said, once, when he finished the bottle and dropped it under the seat; but the swift hardening of his brother's face did not encourage further explanations.
The conveyance that met them at the station had all the dignity and luxuriousness of a private carriage. George's eyes were keen for the ear marks of the institution to which they were going, but his apprehensions were allayed from moment to moment. As they entered the wide gateway and rolled on through the spacious grounds, he felt sure that the institutional side of the place would not jar upon his brother. It was more like a summer hotel, or, better yet, a country club. And as they swept on through the spring sunshine, the songs of birds in his ears, and in his nostrils the breath of flowers, George sighed for a week of rest in such a place, and before his eyes loomed the arid vista of summer in town and at the office. There was not room in his income for his brother and himself.
'Let us take a walk in the grounds,' he suggested, after they had met Doctor Bodineau and inspected the quarters assigned to Al. 'The carriage leaves for the station in half an hour, and we'll just have time.'
'It's beautiful,' he remarked a moment later. Under his feet was the velvet grass, the trees arched overhead, and he stood in mottled sunshine. 'I wish I could stay for a month.'
'I'll trade places with you,' Al said quickly.
George laughed it off, but he felt a sinking of the heart.
'Look at that oak!' he cried. 'And that woodpecker! Isn't he a beauty!'
'I don't like it here,' he heard his brother mutter.
George's lips tightened in preparation for the struggle, but he said-
'I'm going to send Mary and the children off to the mountains. She needs it, and so do they. And when you're in shape, I'll send you right on to join them. Then you can take your summer vacation before you come back to the office.'
'I'm not going to stay in this damned hole, for all you talk about it,' Al announced abruptly.
'Yes you are, and you're going to get your health and strength back again, so that the look of you will put the
