suddenly recollecting something, "I have got Sommers over here with me."

"Ah!" said Ferris; "doing him any good?"

"Well, precious little, as far as I can see."

"Perhaps it would interest Mr. Brenton to meet him," said Ferris. "I
think, Brenton, you asked me a while ago if there was any hell here, or
any punishment. Mr. Speed can show you a man in hell."

"Really?" asked Brenton.

"Yes," said Speed; "I think if ever a man was in misery, he is. The
trouble with Sommers was this. He--well, he died of delirium tremens,
and so, of course, you know what the matter was. Sommers had drunk
Chicago whisky for thirty-five years straight along, and never added to
it the additional horror of Chicago water. You see what his condition
became, both physical and mental. Many people tried to reform Sommers,
because he was really a brilliant man; but it was no use. Thirst had
become a disease with him, and from the mental part of that disease,
although his physical yearning is now gone of course, he suffers.
Sommers would give his whole future for one glass of good old Kentucky
whisky. He sees it on the counters, he sees men drink it, and he stands
beside them in agony. That's why I brought him over here. I thought that
he wouldn't see the colour of whisky as it sparkles in the glass; but
now he is in the Café Quadra watching men drink. You may see him sitting
there with all the agony of unsatisfied desire gleaming from his face."

"And what do you do with a man like that?" asked Brenton.