A night at the hotel

“Duncan Woodward!” I exclaimed.  “Is it possible?”

He gave me a quick look of wonder.  “Roger Strong!” he gasped.  Oh, save me, Roger!  These rowdies want to kill me!”

Even as he spoke he received a cruel blow in the side.

“I’ll help you all I can,” I replied promptly.

I knew it would be a waste of words to try to argue with the gang of toughs, so I simply went at them in a physical way.

I hit out right and left with all my might, and as quickly as I could, repeated the blows.

The suddenness of my attack disconcerted the three footpads, and when Duncan recovered sufficiently to lend a hand, one of them took to his heels and disappeared up the alley.

The two remaining ones stood their ground, and called on their companions to come back and bring “Noxy an’ de rest.”

I received a blow in the shoulder that nearly threw me over on my back.  But I straightened up, and in return gave my assailant a hard one in the nose that drew blood.

“Duncan, you clear out to the street,” I whispered.  “I’ll come after.”

The young man followed my advice, first, however, stopping to pick up several things he had dropped or that had been taken from him.

When he was twenty or thirty feet away I started after him.  As I did so, I noticed he had left a large note-book lying on the ground.  I took it up, and hurried on.  For a moment more we were safe upon the street again, and the two toughs slunk away up the alley.

Then, for the first time, I noted something about Duncan that I thought shameful beyond words.

He had been drinking heavily.  The smell of liquor was in his breath, and it was with difficulty that he kept from staggering.

“You’re my best, friend,” he mumbled.  “My enemy and my friend.”

“What are you doing in New York, Duncan?” I asked.

“Come on important business, Roger.  Say, take me to the hotel, will you?  That’s a good fellow.”

“Where are you staying?”

“Staying?  Nowhere.”

“Then why don’t you take the train to Newville and go home?”

“Can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“The old gent would kill me.  He says I spend too much money.  Well, maybe I do.”

“You’ve bean drinking, Duncan.”

“So I have, Roger.  Take me to a hotel.”

“Will you promise to go to bed and not to drink any more if I do?”

“Yes.  I’ve had enough.”

“Then brace up and come with me.”

Not without a good deal of difficulty did I manage to make him walk several blocks to a good though not stylish hotel.  Here I took him into the office and explained the situation to the clerk in charge, who promptly assigned us to a room on the third floor.

The charge was three dollars, which Duncan with some difficulty managed to pay; and then we took the elevator to the third floor.