CHAPTER VII.

HEMMING RECEIVES HIS SAILING ORDERS FROM A MASTER NOT TO BE DENIED

Stanley was taken to a private lunatic asylum, and, for all we know to the contrary, his seafaring friend went along with him. Hemming and Tarmont looked through his papers, and found that his father was living (and living well, too) in Toronto, Canada. He was a judge of the Supreme Court, no less. They wrote to this personage, stating the crazy man's case, and in reply received a letter containing a request to enter the patient at a private asylum, and a substantial check. The judge wrote that he had not seen or heard from his son for seven years, and, though he had always been willing to supply him with money, had been unable to discover his address. He arrived in New York soon after his letter,--a big, kindly man with white hair and red cheeks, and a month later took his son home with him. That was the last Hemming saw or heard of Stanley,--of the man to whom he owed more than he had knowledge of.

O'Rourke's affairs went along merrily. He wrote and sold stories and poems. His name began to appear each month on the cover of a certain widely read magazine. Everything was in line for an early wedding and a career of happiness "for ever after."

One morning, while O'Rourke was hard at work, Hemming, who had gone out immediately after breakfast, returned to their sitting-room and laid a red leather case on his friend's manuscript. O'Rourke completed a flowing sentence, and then straightened up and opened the case. A very fine brier-root pipe was disclosed to his view.

"Where did you steal this?" he inquired.

"It is a present for you," said Hemming, dropping into a chair. O'Rourke put down his pen, and eyed his friend with an air of surprise.

"A present!" he exclaimed. "Why, my dear chap, surely I've been taking anything of yours that I happened to want long enough for you to see that there is no need of this depressing formality."

"But we've been such chums."

"You haven't just found that out, I hope."

Hemming shook his head.

"I'm going away," he explained, "and I suppose it will be without you this time."

"I wouldn't mind going to Staten Island," replied O'Rourke, "but for any farther than that you will have to mark me out."

"I sail for England to-morrow," Hemming informed him.

"Have you been--have you received a letter, or anything of that kind?" inquired his comrade.

"No, but Stanley told me I was a fool not to go back."

"Could have told you that myself."

"Then why didn't you?"

"Thought you knew it."

"I didn't know it,--and I am not sure, even now," retorted Hemming.

"Well, old man," rejoined O'Rourke, "you know her better than I do, so suit yourself. But my advice is the same as Stanley's."

He stared moodily at the Englishman. In fact, he was already lonely for his energetic, steel-true roommate. What days and nights they had seen together! What adventures they had sped, knee to knee! What vigils they had kept by the camp-fires and under the cabin-lamps! And now a girl!--but at that thought his brow cleared.

"I think we have both done with the old pace," he remarked, pensively.

"I wonder," said Hemming.

That night about a dozen men gathered in Tarmont's studio. Hemming was the guest of honour. The big room was soon filled with smoke. There were many things to drink and a few things to eat. Songs were sung, and stories told. Hemming tried to make a speech, and O'Rourke had to finish it for him. After that, Tarmont suggested leap-frog.

"Just wait until I do my little stunt," begged Potts. He tuned his banjo, and, to an accompaniment of his own composing, sang the following verses:

"'You may light your lamps to cheer me, You may tune your harps for me, But my heart is with my shipmates Where the lights are on the sea.

"'You may wine me, you may dine me, You may pledge me to the brim, But my heart is pledging Charlie, And you have no thought of him.

"'You may cheer me with your friendship, As you are gentlemen, But the friend I want the hand-grip of Is not within your ken.

"'So keep your praise, and keep your blame, And save your good red wine, For though this town be home for you, It is no home of mine.

"'And when your lights are brightest, Ah, then, across the glare, I pledge my friends of yesterday, And love of otherwhere.'"

The applause was loud and long. They patted the singer on the back, and thumped him on the chest. They gave him three cheers and a drink (which made more than three drinks). O'Rourke shouted for their attention.

"All Potts did was make up the silly tune," he cried. "I wrote the verses--with my little pen."

When Hemming and O'Rourke got back to their rooms, they found a steamer-trunk and a couple of bags packed and strapped, and Smith snug abed. The time was 2.30 A.M. They lit the fire, changed their coats, and drew their chairs to the hearth. O'Rourke placed a decanter and glasses on the corner of the table. They talked a little in murmured, disjointed sentences. Each followed his own thoughts as they harked back to the past and worked into the future. They sipped their Scotch and soda, with meditative eyes on the fire. O'Rourke sighed. "Thank God, Helen likes New York no better than I do," he said.

Hemming looked up and nodded.

"My boy," he said, gravely, "if I ever find you and Helen blinking out such a stupid existence as the thing some of our friends call life, I'll drop you both."

"No danger of that," laughed O'Rourke, happily.

"Remember the Hickses," warned Hemming.

For long after O'Rourke had turned in, Hemming continued his musings by the sinking fire. Just as the dawn gleamed blue between the curtains, he lit a candle, and unrolled the final proof-sheets of his novel. By the time these were corrected to his satisfaction, the room was flooded with sunshine, and Smith was astir.