'Why, he's at the studio.'
'At the studio, is he? Well, I shouldn't wonder if he wasn't better
off. 'E didn't strike me as a man what was used to the ways of society.
He's happier where he is, I expect.'
And, having summed matters up in this philosophical manner, Keggs
drained his glass and cocked an expectant eye at Steve.
Steve obeyed the signal and ordered a further supply of the beer for
which Mr. Keggs had a plebian and unbutlerlike fondness. His companion
turned the conversation to the prospects of one of that group of
inefficient middleweights whom Steve so heartily despised, between whom
and another of the same degraded band a ten-round contest had been
arranged and would shortly take place.
Ordinarily this would have been a subject on which Steve would have
found plenty to say, but his mind was occupied with what he had just
heard, and he sat silent while the silver-haired patron of sport
opposite prattled on respecting current form.
Steve felt stunned. It was unthinkable that this thing had really
occurred.
Mr. Keggs, sipping beer, discussed the coming fight. He weighed the
alleged left hook of one principal against the much-advertised right
swing of the other. He spoke with apprehension of a yellow streak which
certain purists claimed to have discovered in the gladiator on whose
chances he proposed to invest his cash.
Steve was not listening to him. A sudden thought had come to him,
filling his mind to the exclusion of all else.
The recollection of his talk with Kirk at the studio had come back to
him. He had advised Kirk, as a solution of his difficulties, to kidnap
the child and take him to Connecticut. Well, Kirk was out of the
running now, but he, Steve, was still in it.
He would do it himself.
The idea thrilled him. It was so in keeping with his theory of the
virtue of the swift and immediate punch, administered with the minimum
of preliminary sparring. There was a risk attached to the scheme which
appealed to him. Above all, he honestly believed that it would achieve
its object, the straightening out of the tangle which Ruth and Kirk had
made of their lives.
When once an idea had entered Steve's head he was tenacious of it. He
had come to the decision that Ruth needed what he called a jolt to
bring her to herself, much as a sleep-walker is aroused by the touch of
a hand, and he clung to it.
He interrupted Mr. Keggs in the middle of a speech touching on his
man's alleged yellow streak.
'Will you be at home to-night, colonel?' he asked.
'I certainly will, Mr. Dingle.'
'Mind if I look in?'
'I shall be delighted. I can offer you a cigar that I think you'll
appreciate, and we can continue this little chat at our leisure. Mrs.
Winfield's dining out, and that there Porter, thank Gawd, 'as gone to
Boston.'
