Mr. Burton, sacrificing principle to friendship,
had one with him. The bar more than fulfilled Mr. Stiles's ideas as to
its cosiness, and within the space of ten minutes he was on excellent
terms with the regular clients. Into the little, old-world bar, with its
loud-ticking clock, its Windsor-chairs, and its cracked jug full of
roses, he brought a breath of the bustle of the great city and tales of
the great cities beyond the seas. Refreshment was forced upon him, and
Mr. Burton, pleased at his friend's success, shared mildly in his
reception. It was nine o'clock before they departed, and then they only
left to please the landlord.
"Nice lot o' chaps," said Mr. Stiles, as he stumbled out into the sweet,
cool air. "Catch hold--o' my--arm, George. Brace me--up a bit."
Mr. Burton complied, and his friend, reassured as to his footing, burst
into song. In a stentorian voice he sang the latest song from comic
opera, and then with an adjuration to Mr. Burton to see what he was
about, and not to let him trip, he began, in a lumbering fashion, to
dance.
Mr. Burton, still propping him up, trod a measure with fewer steps, and
cast uneasy glances up the lonely road.
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