Eugene half rose at this insulting mention of his wife’s name, but the song was now ringing around him, and, sinking back, he, too, raised his unsteady voice.  Again and again the words were madly shouted; and then, dashing his empty glass against the marble mantel, Proctor swore he would not drink another drop.  What a picture of degradation!  Disordered hair, soiled clothes, flushed, burning cheeks, glaring eyes, and nerveless hands.  Eugene attempted to rise, but fell back in his chair, tearing off his cravat, which seemed to suffocate him.  Proctor, who was too thoroughly inured to such excesses to feel it as sensibly as the remainder of the party, laughed brutally, and, kicking over a chair which stood in his way, grasped his host by the arm, and exclaimed: 

“Come out of this confounded room; it is as hot as a furnace; and let us have a ride to cool us.  Come.  Munroe and Cowdon must look after the others.  By Jove, Graham, old father Bacchus himself could not find fault with your cellar.  Come.”

Each took a cigar from the stand and descended to the front door, where a light buggy was waiting the conclusion of the revel.  It was a cloudless July night, and the full moon poured a flood of silver light over the silent earth.  Proctor assisted Eugene into the buggy, and, gathering up the reins, seized the whip, gave a flourish and shout, and off sprang the spirited horse, which the groom could with difficulty hold until the riders were seated.

“Now, Graham, I will bet a couple of baskets of Heidseick that my royal Telegraph will make the first mile post in 2.30.  What say you?”

“Done; 2.40 is the lowest.”

“Phew!  Telegraph, my jewel, show what manner of flesh you are made of.  Now, then, out with your watch.”

He shook the reins and the horse rushed forward like an arrow.  Before the mile post was reached it became evident that Telegraph had taken the game entirely out of his master’s hands.  In vain the reins were tightened.  Proctor leaned so far back that his hat fell off.  Still the frantic horse sped on.  The mile post flashed by, but Eugene could barely sit erect, much less note the time.  At this stage of the proceedings, the whir of wheels behind gave a new impetus to Telegraph’s flying feet.  They were near a point in the road where an alley led off at right angles, and thinking, doubtless, that it was time to retrace his steps, the horse dashed down the alley, heedless of Proctor’s efforts to restrain him, and, turning into a neighboring street, rushed back toward the city.  Bareheaded, and with heavy drops of perspiration streaming from his face, Proctor cursed, and jerked, and drew the useless reins.  On went Telegraph, making good his title, now swerving to this side of the road and now to that; but as he approached a mass of bricks which were piled on one side of the street, near the foundations of a new building, the moonlight flashed upon a piece of tin in the sand on the opposite side, and, frightened by the glitter, he plunged toward the bricks.  The wheels struck, the buggy tilted, then came down again with a terrible jolt, and Eugene was thrown out on the pile.  Proctor was jerked over the dashboard, dragged some distance, and finally left in the sand, while Telegraph ran on to the stable.