"What will you drink? Or, rather, will you have a whiskey?
I keep nothing else. Hospitality is one of the debarred
luxuries."
Chilcote shook his head. "I seldom drink. But don't let that
deter you."
Loder smiled. "I have one drink in the twenty-four hours
--generally at two o'clock, when my night's work is done. A
solitary man has to look where he is going."
"You work till two?"
"Two--or three."
Chilcote's eyes wandered to the desk. "You write?" he asked.
The other nodded curtly.
"Books?" Chilcote's tone was anxious.
Loder laughed, and the bitter note showed in his voice.
"No--not books," he said.
Chilcote leaned back in his chair and passed his hand across
his face. The strong wave of satisfaction that the words woke
in him was difficult to conceal.
"What is your work?"
Loder turned aside. "You must not ask that," he said,
shortly. "When a man has only one capacity, and the capacity
has no outlet, he is apt to run to seed in a wrong direction.
I cultivate weeds--at abominable labor and a very small
reward.
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