Twist, who was not very used to
emotional young men, packed him out of the way to take the news to Mr.
Twist, who was sitting up waiting for it.
The two women had never told Mr. Twist of Louis's tragedy. He had
guessed that he had been "on the shikker" that week he stayed away, but
he took that as the ordinary thing done by ordinary men--he himself was
past "having a burst," he had no heart for it now; but no young man was
any the worse for it if it didn't take hold of him. And so, when Louis
went there with his eyes shining, his hair wild and his hands shaking,
he brought out a bottle of brandy.
"We must drink the young fellow's health," said Mr. Twist, pouring out a
microscopic dose for himself and passing the bottle to Louis. "I got
that bottle a bit ago, as soon as mother told me your missus was like
that. You never know when a drop of brandy may save life."
Louis refused the drink, but Mr. Twist laughed at him--and Louis could
not bear to be laughed at. He too poured a microscopic dose, and they
solemnly toasted the unnamed son. Louis was fidgety, anxious to get
back.
"Leave them alone--they're better alone for a bit. All sorts of things
to see to," said the man who had weathered seven birthdays. "Have a pipe
with me."
They smoked; Mr. Twist talked. Louis answered vaguely, his mind with
Marcella; he had suddenly determined that he could not keep his son, as
well as his wife, chained in the Bush with him.
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