e block. He looked at
his watch. He debated a second longer.

"All right," he said. "I'll get it. But you get on that car. If you miss
it, I'll break the bottle over your head."

He dashed across the street and into the saloon. The car came in and
stopped. There were no passengers to get off. Al dragged himself up the
steps and sat down. He smiled as the conductor rang the bell and the car
started. The swinging door of the saloon burst open. Clutching in
his hand the suit case and a pint bottle of whisky, George started in
pursuit. The conductor, his hand on the bell cord, waited to see if it
would be necessary to stop. It was not. George swung lightly aboard, sat
down beside his brother, and passed him the bottle.

"You might have got a quart," Al said reproachfully.

He extracted the cork with a pocket corkscrew, and elevated the bottle.

"I'm sick... my stomach," he explained in apologetic tones to the
passenger who sat next to him.

In the train they sat in the smoking-car. George felt that it was
imperative. Also, having successfully caught the train, his heart
softened. He felt more kindly toward his brother, and accused himself of
unnecessary harshness. He strove to atone by talking about their mother,
and sisters, and the little affairs and interests of the family. But Al
was morose, and devoted himself to the bottle. As the time passed, his
mouth hung looser and looser, while the rings under his eyes seemed to
puff out and all his facial muscles to relax.

"It's my stomach," he said, once, when he finished the bottle and
dropped it under the seat; but the swift hardening of his brother's face
did not encourage further explanations.

The conveyance that met them at the station had all the dignity and
luxuriousness of a private carriage. George's eyes were keen for the ear
marks of the institution to which they were going, but his apprehensions
were allayed from moment to moment. As they entered the wide gateway
and rolled on through the spacious grounds, he felt sure that the
institutional side of the place would not jar upon his brother. It was
more like a summer hotel, or, better yet, a country club. And as they
swept on through the spring sunshine, the songs of birds in his ears,
and in his nostrils the breath of flowers, George sighed for a week
of rest in such a place, and before his eyes loomed the arid vista of
summer in town and at the office. There was not room in his income for
his brother and