“It seems to. I guess we shall have to call it a mystery, and hope to learn more about it later on. Going upstairs?” “Not just yet; let’s go and liquidate.” “I don’t drink,” Brant objected. “The dickens you don’t! Since when?” “Never mind the date--since I quit.” “I’ll bet money that was no longer ago than yesterday. Come and take a cigar, then.” “I don’t mind doing that, if you are thirsty enough to drink alone.” “I am thirsty enough to envy the fellow who went and got himself drowned in a butt of Malmsey,” rejoined the reporter, linking arms with Brant and pointing like a trained retriever for the nearest pothouse. “That thirst will be the death of you, my boy, if you are not careful,” ventured the older sinner, catching step. “Don’t you lose any sleep about that. I know blessed well when to take a drink and when to let it alone.” “Yes, I have met you before,” said Brant ironically. “You are one of a fair-sized crowd. The first ‘when’ is whenever you happen to think of it; the second is when the thing itself is temporarily out of reach.” Jarvis whistled derisively, and his retort was out of the heart of flippancy: “You missed your calling, old man; your layout is the Prohibition platform. Why don’t you join the Salvation Army?” “For good and sufficient reasons; but that has nothing to do with your bad habits.” “Oh, come off! You’re a one-horse lay preacher, that’s what you are! Your theory is all right, but the wheels won’t go round in practice. Man can’t be a reporter and not drink.” “Without knowing more than I have to about the askings of your job, I’ll venture to dispute that,” Brant asserted. “According to my notion, a man can’t be the best of anything so long as he hobnobs with any devil of appetite.” “Oh, let up--you make me limp! I’ll bet a gold mine against a skinny little Indian pony that you’ve got wickedness enough in your system to cover my one little weakness like a bedspread and tuck in all around the edges. Come now, own up.” But for obvious reasons Brant could not own up; and since the random thrust found the joint in his harness, he must needs go dumb. But a little later, when they were standing together at the bar, he was again moved to protest at the spectacle of Jarvis putting absinthe into his whisky. “The red liquor is bad enough by itself, my boy,” he remarked, clipping the end of his cigar, “but the other is enough worse. It will make an idiot of you before your time.” “That’s right; share a man’s hospitality and jump on his personal preferences all in the same breath. If you’ve got to reform somebody, why don’t you tackle that railroad friend of yours over there in the corner? He is sliding down the stair on the balustrade thereof. Go over and preach to him, while I see if I can’t rustle up an eleventh-hour suicide for Forsyth.”