Tobin shook his white head sadly.
“Tut, tut, tut,” said he. “And do you tell me that! Faith, he’s a young man yet—not much over sixty—and what call have he to be takin’ on the ways and manners of age? Even as late as the last year of the Coffin Club he was as swift as the light.”
“He frequently spoke of that club to me,” observed the other. “A queer place, I understand.”
Tobin nodded.
“Queer enough,” he answered, “and the members was as queer in some ways. Nothing would do them, but they must spend their time underground, sitting at tables shaped like coffins, and drinking their liquor out of mugs shaped like skulls. I was steward there a long time, and got good pay; but I never approved of the notion. It always seemed like divilment to me, did that.”
“Some very well known people frequented it, did they not?”
“Many’s the time I’ve seen the governor of the state himself, sitting there with a mug in his fist. The liquors was of the best, do you see,” with a pleased light in his eyes. “I know that, for it were meself that selected them. And a good sup of drink is a great attraction, so it is.”
“I don’t think that can be successfully denied,” admitted the investigator. “Some very brilliant men have proved it to their sorrow.”
“True for ye,” said Tobin. “Don’t I know it? We had actors and writers and editors—the cream of their professions—and every one of them a devotee, so to speak, of Bacchus. Sure, the finer the intellect, the greater the sup of drink appeals to them, if it does at all. One of the greatest frequenters of the club was a man whose inventions,” with a grandiloquent gesture, “revolutionized the industries of the world. And when he was mellow with it, boys o’ boys, but he could discourse! His name was Morris,” added the speaker, “and he was the father of the young man whose name has been mixed up with this Hume affair which is so occupying the public mind just now.”
“Indeed.”
There was a pause: Tobin’s mobile face looked back upon the past; his eyes had an introspective light in them.
“To think,” said he, “how the natures of men differ. Some are like the gods of old, and others again are like—well, like anything you choose to call them. And yet,” with philosophic speculation, “these two widely diversified types are sometimes friends. To the surprise of everyone they occasionally take up with one another. It’s hard to say why, but it is so.”
“I’ve noticed it myself,” said Ashton-Kirk.
Tobin nodded.
“Never,” said he, “did I see it so exemplified as in the case of Richard Morris and this felly who has just been killed. Never were two men more unlike; but sorra such an intimacy did I ever see afore, as there was between them. Morris when he had the drink in him was a poet. His ideas soared to the starry skies; he flew about upon the wings of the wind; faith I believe he thought the sun was not beyond his reach. But Hume was a divil! God save us, that I should say the like about any human creature; but he had the imp in him, for many’s the time I see it grinning and looking out at his two eyes.”
“I’ve heard it said that he was an unpleasant sort of chap,” agreed the other.
“Unpleasant,” said Tobin, “does not do credit to his capabilities, though ’tis a good word enough. There was never a man came into the Coffin Club, during the five years that I were there, that looked as though the place fitted him, but Hume. The others were like bad little boys who wouldn’t take a dare. But Hume was just right. To see him lift one of the stone skulls to his lips and grin over it at you, would make your blood run cold. And bless us and save us, gentlemen, how he would jeer and snarl and laugh all at the one time. Many’s the time I’ve listened to poor Morris rave and paint his pictures of what he was going to do in times to come; and on the other side of the coffin-table, Hume would urge him on, leerin’ and grinnin’ like Satan himself, and making all manner of game of him. Bedad, me gorge rose at it more than once, and it was all I could do to keep from takin’ him by the scruff of the neck and throwin’ him intil the street.”
“Almost every man has some spark of good in his nature, however faint,” said Ashton-Kirk. “And Hume may have had one, too, though no one seems to have discovered it.”
Tobin smiled and returned:
“An Irishman always has a good deal of respect for the fighting strain, no matter if it be in a man, or a beast, or a bird. Old Nick himself must be a grand, two-handed man, and as such we must give him credit. And ’twas the same way with this felly Hume. He had real fighting blood, so he had; and sorra the man ever undertook to impose on him the second time.”
“And as a true Celt, you held this to be a credit mark,” laughed Ashton-Kirk.
“I did. And, indeed, he seemed to consider it so himself, though he was not one to care a snap what others thought of him. But often he’d boast of the stock he came from. Fighters they were to the core, he said, fighters who never knew when they were whipped, and who’d go on fighting while they had a leg to stand on, an eye to see, and an arm to strike a blow.”
Tobin here paused and stroked his smooth-shaven chin, reflectively.
“He claimed descent from someone who was rated a real man in his day,” he continued. “ ’Twas an officer, I think, who fought with—faith, yes,” smiling in recollection, “at the side of sorra the one
