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Over An Absinthe Bottle
by
“You are younger than I,” he said; “won’t you go to the bar and buy a bottle of absinthe, and bring a pitcher of water and some glasses? I don’t like for the waiters to come around. Here is a twenty-dollar bill.”
Kimberlin took the bill and started down through the corridor towards the bar. He clutched the money tightly in his palm; it felt warm and comfortable, and sent a delicious tingling through his arm. How many glorious hot meals did that bill represent? He clutched it tighter and hesitated. He thought he smelled a broiled steak, with fat little mushrooms and melted butter in the steaming dish. He stopped and looked back towards the door of the booth. He saw that the stranger had closed it. He could pass it, slip out the door, and buy something to eat. He turned and started, but the coward in him (there are other names for this) tripped his resolution; so he went straight to the bar and made the purchase. This was so unusual that the man who served him looked sharply at him.
“Ain’t goin’ to drink all o’ that, are you?” he asked.
“I have friends in the box,” replied Kimberlin, “and we want to drink quietly and without interruption. We are in Number 7.”
“Oh, beg pardon. That’s all right,” said the man.
Kimberlin’s step was very much stronger and steadier as he returned with the liquor. He opened the door of the booth. The stranger sat at the side of the little table, staring at the opposite wall just as he had stared across the street. He wore a wide-brimmed, slouch hat, drawn well down. It was only after Kimberlin had set the bottle, pitcher, and glasses on the table, and seated himself opposite the stranger and within his range of vision, that the pale man noticed him.
“Oh! you have brought it? How kind of you! Now please lock the door.”
Kimberlin had slipped the change into his pocket, and was in the act of bringing it out when the stranger said,–
“Keep the change. You will need it, for I am going to get it back in a way that may interest you. Let us first drink, and then I will explain.”
The pale man mixed two drinks of absinthe and water, and the two drank. Kimberlin, unsophisticated, had never tasted the liquor before, and he found it harsh and offensive; but no sooner had it reached his stomach than it began to warm him, and sent the most delicious thrill through his frame.
“It will do us good,” said the stranger; “presently we shall have more. Meanwhile, do you know how to throw dice?”
Kimberlin weakly confessed that he did not.
“I thought not. Well, please go to the bar and bring a dice-box. I would ring for it, but I don’t want the waiters to be coming in.”
Kimberlin fetched the box, again locked the door, and the game began. It was not one of the simple old games, but had complications, in which judgment, as well as chance, played a part. After a game or two without stakes, the stranger said,–
“You now seem to understand it. Very well–I will show you that you do not. We will now throw for a dollar a game, and in that way I shall win the money that you received in change. Otherwise I should be robbing you, and I imagine you cannot afford to lose. I mean no offence. I am a plain-spoken man, but I believe in honesty before politeness. I merely want a little diversion, and you are so kind-natured that I am sure you will not object.”
“On the contrary,” replied Kimberlin, “I shall enjoy it.”
“Very well; but let us have another drink before we start. I believe I am growing colder.”
They drank again, and this time the starving man took his liquor with relish–at least, it was something in his stomach, and it warmed and delighted him.