his voice,—“I'm drunk as a lord. But I reckon I can get away with it. Come along.”
He really handled himself surprisingly well. I am not an expert, of course, in the various psychological reactions from drink. I should have said he was a little over-stimulated, nothing more. He kept away from the bar, and at the table in the big dining-room drank very little—only a cocktail and a light wine with the roast. And he discussed this with me at the start, finally deciding that it would not be wise for him to stop abruptly.
All went well until the dessert. There was quite a choice of items on the bill. I ordered vanilla ice cream. I distinctly heard him order the same. I recall wondering a little, at the moment; for surely vanilla ice cream was not the most desirable addition to the various substances already on his alcohol-poisoned stomach.
When the waiter set the dish before him, he astonished me with a sudden outburst of anger.
“Good God!” he cried, quite loud, “am I to be treated like this! Has nobody any regard for my feelings!”
I began to feel unpleasantly conspicuous.
“This is past all endurance!” he shouted, pushing back his chair.
The Chinese waiter had turned back, by this time, and stood, bowing respectfully by his chair.
Crocker swore under his breath, sprang to his feet, and with a short, hard swing of his right hand struck the unsuspecting Chinaman on the jaw.
I never before saw a man fall in precisely that way. Indeed, it was not a fall in the ordinary sense of the word. It was more like a sudden paralysis. His knees appeared to give, and he sank to the floor without the slightest sound that I was conscious of.
There was a good deal of confusion, of course. Women made sounds. One or two, I think, ran from the room. There was much scraping of chairs as men got up and made for us. The manager of the hotel appeared, crowding through toward us.
The Chinaman did not stir; he was now merely a heap of blue clothing at our feet, huddled against the table-leg.
Prev.
Back
Top