Rex was about to learn how to manage Billy Strong. "Bill," he said, "be
decent. You're making me lots of trouble," and Billy burst into tears
and sobbed out:

"Wouldn' make Recky trouble for worlds--good ol' Recky--half-witted ol'
goat, but bes' fren' ev' had," and the address was captured.

Rex turned to his cousin, his winning, deprecating manner warning Reed
but softening him against his will. "Carty," he said, "there's nothing
for it, but for you to take one chap and I the other and see 'em home.
It's only a little after seven and we ought to be able to meet by
half-past eight--at the Hotel Netherland, say--that's near the Rush's.
We'll have to give up dinner, but we'll get a sandwich somewhere, and
we'll do. I'll take Strong because he's more troublesome--I think I can
manage him. It's awfully good of you, and I can tell you I appreciate
it. But it wouldn't be civilized to do less, old Carty, would it?" And
Reed found himself, grumbling but docile, linked to the suicide's arm,
and guiding his shuffling foot-steps in the way they should go.

"Now, we'll both kill ourselves, old Carty, won't we?" Rex heard his
cousin's charge mumble cheerfully as they started off, with a visible
lengthening of his gloom at the thought of companionship at death.

Strong was marching along with an unearthly decorum that should have
made Fairfax suspicious. But instead it cheered his optimistic soul
immensely. "Good for you old man," he said encouragingly. "At this rate
we'll get you home in no time." And Billy, at that second, thrust out
his great shoulder into the crowd, and almost knocked a man down. The
man, whirled sidewise in front of them, glared savagely.