Then I began to think.  I could not rouse his body; I must strive to excite his mind.  “Make him angry,” was an idea that suggested itself.  “Good!” I thought; but how?  There was not a joint in Tom’s armour.  Dear old fellow!  He was good nature itself, and a gallant gentleman, fine and true and clean as sunlight.  He came from somewhere down South, where they still have ideals and a code.  New York had charmed, but had not spoiled, him.  He had that old-fashioned chivalrous reverence for women, that—­Eureka!—­there was my idea!  I worked the thing up for a minute or two in my imagination.  I chuckled to myself at the thought of springing a thing like that on old Tom Hopkins.  Then I took him by the shoulder and shook him till his ears flopped.  He opened his eyes lazily.  I assumed an expression of scorn and contempt, and pointed my finger within two inches of his nose.

“Listen to me, Hopkins,” I said, in cutting and distinct tones, “you and I have been good friends, but I want you to understand that in the future my doors are closed against any man who acts as much like a scoundrel as you have.”

Tom looked the least bit interested.

“What’s the matter, Billy?” he muttered, composedly.  “Don’t your clothes fit you?”

“If I were in your place,” I went on, “which, thank God, I am not, I think I would be afraid to close my eyes.  How about that girl you left waiting for you down among those lonesome Southern pines—­the girl that you’ve forgotten since you came into your confounded money?  Oh, I know what I’m talking about.  While you were a poor medical student she was good enough for you.  But now, since you are a millionaire, it’s different.  I wonder what she thinks of the performances of that peculiar class of people which she has been taught to worship—­the Southern gentlemen?  I’m sorry, Hopkins, that I was forced to speak about these matters, but you’ve covered it up so well and played your part so nicely that I would have sworn you were above such unmanly tricks.”

Poor Tom.  I could scarcely keep from laughing outright to see him struggling against the effects of the opiate.  He was distinctly angry, and I didn’t blame him.  Tom had a Southern temper.  His eyes were open now, and they showed a gleam or two of fire.  But the drug still clouded his mind and bound his tongue.

“C-c-confound you,” he stammered, “I’ll s-smash you.”

He tried to rise from the couch.  With all his size he was very weak now.  I thrust him back with one arm.  He lay there glaring like a lion in a trap.

“That will hold you for a while, you old loony,” I said to myself.  I got up and lit my pipe, for I was needing a smoke.  I walked around a bit, congratulating myself on my brilliant idea.

I heard a snore.  I looked around.  Tom was asleep again.  I walked over and punched him on the jaw.  He looked at me as pleasant and ungrudging as an idiot.  I chewed my pipe and gave it to him hard.