pistol! Out came a
knife! I tripped Doyle and got him into a chair, and was so intent on
pacifying him and telling him not to make a fool of himself that I
didn't notice anything else. I handled him good-naturedly, got the knife
away, and then was amazed to find that he had my own pet paper-cutter. I
made them shake hands and make up. It was all a mistake, said Lascelles.
But what made it a worse mistake, the old man _would_ order more wine,
and, with it, brandy. He insisted on celebrating this second grand
reconciliation, and then both got drunker, but the tall Frenchman had
Lascelles's pistol and I had the knife, and then a cab came, and,
though it was storming beastly and I had Ferry's duds on and Larkin's
best tile and Pierce's umbrella, we bundled in somehow and drove on down
the levee, leaving Doyle in the hands of that Amazon of a wife of his
and a couple of doughboys who happened to be around there. Now Lascelles
was all hilarity, singing, joking, confidential. Nothing would do but we
must stop and call on a lovely woman, a _belle amie_. He could rely on
our discretion, he said, laying his finger on his nose, and looking sly
and coquettish, for all the world like some old _roue_ of a Frenchman.
He must stop and see her and take her some wine. 'Indeed,' he said,
mysteriously, 'it is a rendezvous.' Well, I was their guest; I had no
money. What could I do? It was then after eleven, I should judge.
Monsieur Philippes, or whatever his name was, gave orders to the driver.
We pulled up, and then, to my surprise, I found we were at Doyle's. That
ended it. I told them they must excuse me. They protested, but of course
I couldn't go in there. So they took a couple of bottles apiece and went
in the gate, and I settled myself for a nap and got it. I don't know how
long I slept, but I was aroused by the devil's own tumult. A shot had
been fired. Men and women both were screaming and swearing. Some one
suddenly burst into the cab beside me, really pushed from behind, and
then away we went through the mud and the rain; and the lightning was
flashing now, and presently I could recognize Lascelles, raging.
'Infame!' 'Coquin!' 'Assassin!' were the mildest terms he was volleying
at somebody; and then, recognizing me, he burst into maudlin tears,
swore I was his only friend. He had been insulted, abused, denied
reparation. Was he hurt? I inquired, and instinctively felt for my
knife. It was still there where I'd hid it in the inside