Lonesome Land | Page 6

into it, Man, and chase yourself over there to the
hotel. Got a clean collar? That one's all-over coffee."
Fleetwood stifled a groan, reached into a trousers pocket, and brought
up a dollar. "Get me one at the store, will you, Kent? Fifteen and a
half--and a tie, if they've got any that's decent. And hurry! Such a
triple-three-star fool as I am ought to be taken out and shot."
He went on cursing himself audibly and bitterly, even after Kent had
hurried out. He was sober now--was Manley Fleetwood--sober and
self-condemnatory and penitent. His head ached splittingly; his eyes
were heavy-lidded and bloodshot, and his hands trembled so that he
could scarcely button his coat. But he was sober. He did not even carry
the odor of whisky upon his breath or his person; for Kent had been
very thoughtful and very thorough. He had compelled his patient to
crunch and swallow many nauseous tablets of "whisky killer," and he
had sprinkled his clothes liberally with Jockey Club; Fleetwood,
therefore, while he emanated odors in plenty, carried about him none of
the aroma properly belonging to intoxication.
In ten minutes Kent was back, with a celluloid collar and two ties of
questionable taste. Manley just glanced at them, waved them away with
gloomy finality, and swore.
"They're just about the limit, and that's no dream," sympathized Kent,
"but they're clean, and they don't look like they'd been slept in for a
month. You've got to put 'em on--by George, I sized up the layout in
both those imitation stores, and I drew the highest in the deck. And for
the Lord's sake, get a move on. Here, I'll button it for you."

Behind Fleetwood's back, when collar and tie were in place, Kent
grinned and lowered an eyelid at Jim, who put his head in from the
saloon to see how far the sobering had progressed.
"You look fine!" he encouraged heartily. "That green-and-blue tie's just
what you need to set you off. And the collar sure is shiny and
nice--your girl will be plumb dazzled. She won't see anything
wrong--believe me. Now, run along and get married. Here, you better
sneak out the back way; if she happened to be looking out, she'd likely
wonder what you were doing, coming out of a saloon. Duck out past
the coal shed and cut into the street by Brinberg's. Tell her you're
sick--got a sick headache. Your looks'll swear it's the truth. Hike!" He
opened the door and pushed Fleetwood out, watched him out of sight
around the corner of Brinberg's store, and turned back into the
close-smelling little room.
"Do you know," he remarked to Jim, "I never thought of it before, but
I've been playing a low-down trick on that poor girl. I kinda wish now
I'd put her next, and given her a chance to draw outa the game if she
wanted to. It's stacking the deck on her, if you ask me!" He pushed his
hat back upon his head, gave his shoulders a twist of dissatisfaction,
and told Jim to dig up some Eastern beer; drank it meditatively, and set
down the glass with some force.
"Yes, sir," he said disgustedly, "darn my fool soul, I stacked the deck
on that girl--and she looked to be real nice. Kinda innocent and trusting,
like she hasn't found out yet how rotten mean men critters can be." He
took the bottle and poured himself another glass. "She's sure due to
wise up a lot," he added grimly.
"You bet your sweet life!" Jim agreed, and then he reconsidered. "Still,
I dunno; Man ain't so worse. He ain't what you can call a real booze
fighter. This here's what I'd call an accidental jag; got it in the
exuberance of the joyful moment when he knew his girl was coming.
He'll likely straighten up and be all right. He--" Jim broke off there and
looked to see who had opened the door.
"Hello, Polly," he greeted carelessly.

The man came forward, grinning skinnily. Polycarp Jenks was the
outrageous name of him. He was under the average height, and he was
lean to the point of emaciation. His mouth was absolutely curveless--a
straight gash across his face; a gash which simply stopped short
without any tapering or any turn at the corners, when it had reached as
far as was decent. His nose was also straight and high, and owned no
perceptible slope; indeed, it seemed merely a pendant attached to his
forehead, and its upper termination was indefinite, except that
somewhere between his eyebrows one felt impelled to consider it
forehead rather than nose. His eyes also were rather long and narrow,
like buttonholes cut to match the mouth. When he grinned his face
appeared to break up into splinters.