Well, I felt out of it, so to speak.  The feeling made me a little resentful.  After all, this bum was my bum.

“Look here, the man’s sick,” I said to Newman.  “Don’t look at him like that—­he’ll die.  You’ve half scared him to death already.”

“Oh, no; he’ll not die—­yet,” said Newman.  “He’s just a little bit surprised at the encounter.  But he’s glad to see me—­aren’t you, Beasley?  Stop that nonsense, and get up!” This last was barked at the fellow; it was a soft-voiced but imperative command.

The command was instantly obeyed.  That was Newman for you—­people didn’t argue with him, they did what he said.  I’d have obeyed too, just as quickly, if he had spoken to me in that tone.  There was something in that man, something compelling, and, besides, he had the habit of command in his manner.

So Beasley tottered to his feet, and stood there swaying.  He found his tongue, too, in sensible speech.  “For God’s sake, get me a drink!” he said.

I was glad to seize the cue.  It gave me an excuse to do something.

“I’ll get some whisky downstairs,” I sang out to Newman, as I moved for the stairs.  “Take him into my room; I’ll be right back.”

But when I returned with the liquor a few moments later, I discovered that Newman had taken his prize into his own room.  I heard the murmur of voices through the closed door.  But I had rather expected this.  Half seas over I might be, but I was still clear-witted enough to realize that I had accidentally brought two old acquaintances together, and that one was pleased at the meeting and the other terrified, and that whatever was or had been between the two was none of my business.  I had no intention of intruding upon them.  But the fellow, Beasley, had looked so much in need of the stimulant that I ventured a knock upon the door.

Newman opened, and I handed him the bottle without comment.  I could see my erstwhile tow sitting upon the bed, slumped in an attitude of collapse.  He looked so abject; his condition might have touched a harder heart than mine.  But there was no softening of Newman’s heart, to judge from his face; the little mirthless smile had vanished and his features were hard and set.  Aye, and his manner towards me was curt enough.

“Thank you; he needs a pick-me-up,” he said, as he took the bottle.  “And now—­you’ll excuse us, lad.”

It wasn’t a question, that last; it was a statement.  Little he cared if I excused him or not.  He shut the door in my face, and I heard the key turn in the lock.

Well, I suppose I should have been incensed by this off-hand dismissal.  Oh, I was no meek and humble specimen; my temper was only too touchy, and besides there was my reputation as a hard case to look to.  But strangely enough I did not become incensed; I never thought of kicking down the door, I never thought of harboring a grudge.  It wasn’t fear of the big man, either.  It was—­well, that was Newman.  He could do a thing like that, and get away with it.