“Drunk again, I suppose,” answered Crowdie. “But I wish he’d keep out of my way when he is--runs into me, treads on both my feet--with his heels, I believe, though I don’t understand how that’s possible--pushes me out of the way and goes straight on without a word. Confound him, I say! You used to be able to swear beautifully, Frank--can’t you manage to say something?” “At any other time--oh, yes! But you’d better get Ralston himself to do it for you. I’m not in it with him to-day. He’s been giving me the life to come--hot--and Abraham and Isaac and Lazarus and the rich man, and the glass of water, all in a breath. Go and ask him for what you want.” “Oh--then he is drunk, is he?” asked Crowdie, with a disagreeable sneer on his red lips. “I suppose so,” answered Miner, quite carelessly. “At all events, he refused to drink--that’s always a bad sign with him.” “Of course--that makes it a certainty. Gad, though! It doesn’t make him light on his feet, if he happens to tread on yours. It serves me right for coming to the club at this time of day! Perdition on the fellow! I’ve got on new shoes, too!” “What are you two squabbling about?” enquired Hamilton Bright, coming suddenly upon them out of the cloak-room. “We’re not squabbling--we’re cursing Ralston,” answered Miner. “I wish you’d go and look after him, Ham,” said Crowdie to his brother-in-law. “He’s just gone off there. He’s as drunk as the dickens, and swearing against everybody and treading on their toes in the most insolent way imaginable. Get him out of this, can’t you? Take him home--you’re his friend. If you don’t he’ll be smashing things before long.” “Is he as bad as that, Frank?” asked Bright, gravely. “Where is he?” “At the telephone--I don’t know--he trod on Crowdie’s feet and Crowdie’s perfectly wild and exaggerates. But there’s something wrong, I know. I think he’s not exactly screwed--but he’s screwed up--well, several pegs, by the way he acts. They call drinks ‘pegs’ somewhere, don’t they? I wanted to make a joke. I thought it might do Crowdie good--” “Well, it’s a very bad one,” said Bright. “He’s at the telephone, you say?” “Yes. The man said Mr. Lauderdale wanted to speak to him--he didn’t know which Mr. Lauderdale--but it’s probably Alexander the Safe, and if it is, there’s going to be a row over the wires. When Jack’s shut up there alone in the dark in the sound-proof box with the receiver under his nose and Alexander at the other end--if the wires don’t melt--that’s all! And Alexander’s a metallic sort of man--I should think he’d draw the lightning right down to his toes.”