“No, I’m not,” replied Poole, slowly. “Marchmont wouldn’t do anything for me if he could help it, and I should be mad before I’d said ten words.”
“And I’m not, either,” sighed Laughlin. “I’ve never spoken to him a dozen times in my life, and yet he seems to hate me as if I were his worst enemy.”
A few minutes later Lindsay looked up in surprise to see Poole and Laughlin walk solemnly into his room. The former had made very infrequent visits of late; the latter had never appeared there before.
“We’ve come for help in a charity case,” said Poole. “Will you give it?”
“I guess so,” replied Wolcott, cautiously. “It depends on the case.”
“Laughlin will explain. Fire away, Dave!”
And Laughlin rehearsed White’s tale as he had heard it, briefly, without adjectives or exclamation points to weaken the effect of the simple details, ending with an account of the victim’s present condition and the need of prompt action if he were to be saved serious illness. When he finished, Wolcott was sitting straight up, with eyes fixed on the narrator’s lips and a red spot burning on either cheek.
“Do you mean to tell me that Marchmont still owes that money?” he demanded.
Laughlin nodded: “That’s what I mean. He still owes it and is likely to owe it indefinitely.”
“Unless some one can get it out of him,” added Poole. “White won’t let us put it in Grim’s hands, and we have no influence with the fellow.”
“Then it’s up to me,” said Wolcott, jumping to his feet with a look of determination in his face. “I’ll have a try at him myself.” And before the others could utter a word, he had seized his hat and dived out the door.
The visitors looked at each other and laughed.
“Dead easy,” said Phil. “He’s the right kind, isn’t he? How quickly he caught on!”
“I always liked him,” returned Laughlin. “The trouble is, he doesn’t like me.”
Marchmont looked up from his cigarette and his novel into Wolcott’s stern face and understood that something had gone wrong. He did not ask what, for his visitor left him no opportunity.
“I believe I do,” answered Marchmont, unpleasantly startled at this abrupt opening; “but that’s our business.”
“It’s other people’s business now,” retorted Wolcott, hotly. “He’s in bed sick. He’s sick because he hasn’t had enough to eat. He hasn’t had enough because you have taken the money he needed for food and won’t return it to him. Now you can cough up that money, or I’ll put the case into Grim’s hands to settle as he chooses. I won’t see a fellow like that fleeced of his money and starved to death without putting up some kind of a howl. It’s robbery!”