The Complete Works of James Whitcomb Riley, vol 10 | Page 6

I answered, catching something of his own enthusiasm; "I
myself prefer it to the play."
"I heartily congratulate you on your taste," he said, diving violently for
my hand and wringing it.
"Oh, it's going to be grimly glorious!--a depth of darkness one can

wade out into, and knead in his hands like dough!" And he laughed,
himself, at this grotesque conceit.
And so we walked--for hours. Our talk--or, rather, my friend's
talk--lulled and soothed at last into a calmer flow, almost solemn in its
tone, and yet fretted with an occasional wildness of utterance and
expression.
Half consciously I had been led by my companion, who for an hour had
been drawing closer to me as we walked. His arm, thrust through my
own, clung almost affectionately. We were now in some strange suburb
of the city, evidently, too, in a low quarter, for from the windows of
such business rooms and shops as bore any evidence of respectability
the lights had been turned out and the doors locked for the night. Only
a gruesome green light was blazing in a little drug-store just opposite,
while at our left, as we turned the corner, a tumble- down saloon sent
out on the night a mingled sound of clicking billiard-balls, discordant
voices, the harsher rasping of a violin, together with the sullen
plunkings of a banjo.
"I must leave you here for a minute," said my friend, abruptly breaking
a long silence, and loosening my arm. "The druggist over there is a
patron of our house, and I am reminded of a little business I have with
him. He is about closing, too, and I'll see him now, as I may not be
down this way again soon. No; you wait here for me--right here," and
he playfully but firmly pushed me back, ran across the street, and
entered the store. Through the open door I saw him shake hands with
the man who stood behind the counter, and stand talking in the same
position for some minutes--both still clasping hands, as it seemed; but
as I mechanically bent with closer scrutiny, the druggist seemed to be
examining the hand of Mr. Clark and working at it, as though picking
at a splinter in the palm--I I could not quite determine what was being
done, for a glass show-case blurred an otherwise clear view of the arms
of both from the elbows down. Then they came forward, Mr. Clark
arranging his cuffs, and the druggist wrapping up some minute article
he took from an upper show-case, and handing it to my friend, who
placed it in the pocket of his vest and turned away. At this moment my
attention was withdrawn by an extra tumult of jeers and harsh laughter
in the saloon, from the door of which, even as my friend turned from
the door opposite, a drunken woman reeled, and staggering round the

corner as my friend came up, fell violently forward on the pavement,
not ten steps in our advance. Instinctively, we both sprang to her aid,
and bending over the senseless figure, peered curiously at the bruised
and bleeding features. My friend was trembling with excitement. He
clutched wildly at the limp form, trying, but vainly, to lift the woman to
her feet. "Why don't you take hold of her?" he whispered hoarsely.
"Help me with her-- quick! quick! Lift her up!" I obeyed without a
word, though with a shudder of aversion as a drop of hot red blood
stung me on the hand.
"Now draw her arm about your shoulder--this way--and hold it so! And
now your other arm around her waist--quick, man, quick, as you
yourself will want God's arm about you when you fail! Now, come!"
And with no other word we hurried with our burden up the empty
darkness of the street.
I was utterly bewildered with it all, but something kept me silent. And
so we hurried on, and on, and on, our course directed by my now
wholly reticent companion. Where he was going, what his purpose was,
I could not but vaguely surmise. I only recognized that his intentions
were humane, which fact was emphasized by the extreme caution he
took to avoid the two or three late pedestrians that passed us on our
way as we stood crowded in concealment --once behind a low shed,
once in an entry-way; and once, at the distant rattle of a police whistle,
we hurried through the blackness of a narrow alley into the silent street
beyond. And on up this we passed, until at last we paused at the
gateway of a cottage on our left. On to the door of that we went, my
friend first violently jerking the bell, then opening the door with a
night-key, and with me lifting