Harry Kaperton's door was open
and Elim saw the other moving within. He advanced, leaning in the
doorway.
"Back early," Elim remarked. "What's new at Parker's?"
Kaperton was unsuccessful in hiding his surprise at the other's
unexpected appearance and direct question. "Why--why, nothing when I
left;" then more cordially: "Come in, find a chair. Bottle on the
table--oh, I didn't think." He offered an implied apology to Elim's
scruples.
But Elim advanced to the table, where, selecting a decanter at random,
he poured out a considerable drink of pale spirits. Harry Kaperton
looked at him in foolish surprise.
"Had no idea you indulged!" he ejaculated. "Always took you to be a
severe Puritan duck."
"Scotch," Elim corrected him, "Presbyterian."
He tilted the glass and the spirits sank smoothly from sight. His
throat burned as if he had swallowed a mouthful of flame, but there was
a quality in the strong rum that accorded with his present mood: it was
fiery like his released sense of life. Kaperton poured himself a drink,
elevated it with a friendly word and joined Elim.
"I'm going home," the former proceeded. "You see, I live in Maryland,
and the situation there is getting pretty warm. We want to get our
women out of Baltimore, and our affairs conveniently shaped, before any
possible trouble. I had a message this evening to come at once."
The two men presented the greatest possible contrast--Harry Kaperton
had elegantly flowing whiskers, a round young face that expressed
facile excitement at a possible disturbance, and sporting garb of
tremendous emphasis.
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