William Mulliner ground his teeth in a sudden access of jealous rage.
“Personally,” he said, “I consider that the story you have just related reveals this man Franklyn in a very dubious—I might almost say sinister—light. On his own showing, the leading trait in his character appears to be cruelty to animals. The fellow seems totally incapable of meeting a shark or a rhinoceros or any other of our dumb friends without instantly going out of his way to inflict bodily injury on it. The last thing I would wish is to be indelicate, but I cannot refrain from pointing out that, if your union is blessed, your children will probably be the sort of children who kick cats and tie tin cans to dogs’ tails. If you take my advice, you will write the man a little note, saying that you are sorry but you have changed your mind.”
The girl rose in a marked manner.
“I do not require your advice, Mr. Mulliner,” she said, coldly. “And I have not changed my mind.”
Instantly William Mulliner was all contrition. There is a certain stage in the progress of a man’s love when he feels like curling up in a ball and making little bleating noises if the object of his affections so much as looks squiggle-eyed at him; and this stage my Uncle William had reached. He followed her as she paced proudly away through the hotel lobby, and stammered incoherent apologies. But Myrtle Banks was adamant.
“Leave me, Mr. Mulliner,” she said, pointing at the revolving door that led into the street. “You have maligned a better man than yourself, and I wish to have nothing more to do with you. Go!”
William went, as directed. And so great was the confusion of his mind that he got stuck in the revolving door and had gone round in it no fewer than eleven times before the hall-porter came to extricate him.
“I would have removed you from the machinery earlier, sir,” said the hall-porter deferentially, having deposited him safely in the street, “but my bet with my mate in there called for ten laps. I waited till you had completed eleven so that there should be no argument.”
William looked at him dazedly.
“Hall-porter,” he said.
“Sir?”
“Tell me, hall-porter,” said William, “suppose the only girl you have ever loved had gone and got engaged to another, what would you do?”
The hall-porter considered.
“Let me get this right,” he said. “The proposition is, if I have followed you correctly, what would I do supposing the Jane on whom I had always looked as a steady mamma had handed me the old skimmer and told me to take all the air I needed because she had gotten another sweetie?”
“Precisely.”
“Your question is easily answered,” said the hall-porter. “I would go around the corner and get me a nice stiff drink at Mike’s Place.”
“A drink?”
“Yes, sir. A nice stiff one.”
“At where did you say?”
“Mike’s Place, sir. Just round the corner. You can’t miss it.”
William thanked him and walked away. The man’s words had started a new, and in many ways interesting, train of thought. A drink? And a nice stiff one? There might be something in it.
William Mulliner had never tasted alcohol in his life. He had promised his late mother that he would not do so until he was either twenty-one or forty-one—he could never remember which. He was at present twenty-nine; but wishing to be on the safe side in case he had got his figures wrong, he had remained a teetotaller. But now, as he walked listlessly along the street towards the corner, it seemed to him that his mother in the special circumstances could not reasonably object if he took a slight snort. He raised his eyes to heaven, as though to ask her if a couple of quick ones might not be permitted; and he fancied that a faint, far-off voice whispered, “Go to it!”
And at this moment he found himself standing outside a brightly-lighted saloon.
For an instant he hesitated. Then, as a twinge of anguish in the region of his broken heart reminded him of the necessity for immediate remedies, he pushed open the swing doors and went in.
The principal feature of the cheerful, brightly-lit room in which he found himself was a long counter, at which were standing a number of the citizenry, each with an elbow on the woodwork and a foot upon the neat brass rail which ran below. Behind the counter appeared the upper section of one of the most benevolent and kindly-looking men that William had ever seen. He had a large smooth face, and he wore a white coat, and he eyed William, as he advanced, with a sort of reverent joy.
“Is this Mike’s Place?” asked William.
“Yes, sir,” replied the white-coated man.
“Are you Mike?”
“No, sir. But I am his representative, and have full authority to act on his behalf. What can I have the pleasure of doing for you?”
The man’s whole attitude made him seem so like a large-hearted elder brother that William felt no diffidence about confiding in him. He placed an elbow on the counter and a foot on the rail, and spoke with a sob in his voice.
“Suppose the only girl you had ever loved had gone and got engaged to another, what in your view would best meet the case?”
The gentlemanly bartender pondered for some moments.
“Well,” he replied at length, “I advance it, you understand, as a
