“You may as well understand this, now, Muriel. I am sick and tired of the way you are going on. I know I’ve done some things that would not stand the light of day exactly, but I never drank. I’ve committed some crimes, but drunkenness has never been one of them, and I hate liquor. I tell you this, right now: you’ve got to sober up and stop drinking--or--I’ll quit you cold.” At this open threat, Muriel sat up straight and looked at the man half-defiant, half-scared. He maintained his coldly resolute look, while she scanned his face, and then half-laughed: “By heaven! I believe you mean it. Just you try it on, Jack Pierson. Just you try it on, that’s all!” “I’ll take a stroll. I needs de fresh air. It’s de sidewalk fer mine,” said Dopey, uneasily. He had seen too many drunken fights to wish to see another, especially with a powerful woman like Muriel. But Jack went to him and muttered: “You stay here. I’ll have it out with her here and now. I want to make room for the other one.” “Ah,” said Muriel, as she rose almost steadily and advanced, “any secrets that I cannot know?” “No, there is not. I was just telling him that I am sick of your constant sprees and temper. That’s all, and I mean it.” “Ah,” said Muriel, advancing and with a dangerous light in her eyes, “and, I suppose, you meant it when you deserted your honest wife for me, and when you struck your child, and killed him, for all you know. Yes, you must have meant both those things; as you never took a drink in your life, you had not even the excuse of drunkenness. Mine was a new face then, and now that the liquor that you gave me to gain your ends has got the best of me, you’ll quit me cold, will you? Then, let me tell you, when you do it will be cold for you, for you will be dead!” “’Scuse me, cull, I hear me mudder callin’ me, an’ I has to go,” said Dopey. “Go to the devil, if you want to,” replied Pierson angrily. “Dat’s jes’ where I don’t want to go. Her jigs is up to de boilin’ point, an’ all dem sharp shoe-knives lyin’ dere. See me eye. She put dis on it last night. One’s enough fer me.” “Now, Dopey, I’m sorry I hit you, honest I am. Say, Jack, you don’t know what sent me on this spree, do you?” said Muriel. “I don’t know and I don’t care,” replied Jack coldly. “There is no excuse for it.” “Yes, there is, I saw your forsaken, heart-broken wife slinking along in the street--a wreck, a ragged, gin-soaked wreck--and I couldn’t help remembering what she was when we robbed her, you and me. She was honest and true, and, as I looked at her, the sight sickened me, body and soul. I drank to forget it.” “Why do you mention her to me. I have never seen her since, and never want to.” “Nor the boy, either? Poor little half-witted fellow. Give me credit for one thing--I wanted to keep him and care for him, but, no, you robbed his mother of him and put him in the asylum. These things haunt me, Jack. Even drink will not blot them out.”