Читать книгу Wrecked in Port. A Novel онлайн

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That was the final straw. On the receipt of that letter, or rather on the reading of it--he had taken it from the stately old looking-glass over the fireplace to the box where of late he usually sat--Walter Joyce gave a deep groan, and buried his face in his hands. A minute after he felt his hair slightly touched, and looking up, saw old Jack Byrne bending over him.

"What ails ye, lad?" asked the old man tenderly.

"Misery--despair--starvation!"

"I thought so!" said the old man calmly. Then taking a small battered flask from his breast and emptying its contents into a clean cup before him--"Here, drink this, and come outside. We can't talk here!"

Walter swallowed the contents of the cup mechanically, and followed his new friend into the street.

When they stood in the street, with the fresh night-wind blowing upon them, the old man stopped, and, peering anxiously into his companion's face, said abruptly--

"Better?"

"Much better, thank you; quite well, in fact. There's no occasion for me to trouble you any more; I----"