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now that it came from a bull-necked police captain standing near the door.

      “Here now! This is no way! One of your own sojers got shoved out of the back window an’ killed hisself!”

      “Henry!” called Edith, “Henry!”

      She beat wildly with her fists on the back of the man in front of her; she brushed between two others; fought, shrieked, and beat her way to a very pale figure sitting on the floor close to a desk.

      “Henry,” she cried passionately, “what’s the matter? What’s the matter? Did they hurt you?”

      His eyes were shut. He groaned and then looking up said disgustedly —

      “They broke my leg. My God, the fools!”

      “Here now!” called the police captain. “Here now! Here now!”

       IX

      “Childs’, Fifty-ninth Street,” at eight o’clock of any morning differs from its sisters by less than the width of their marble tables or the degree of polish on the frying-pans. You will see there a crowd of poor people with sleep in the corners of their eyes, trying to look straight before them at their food so as not to see the other poor people. But Childs’, Fifty-ninth, four hours earlier is quite unlike any Childs’ restaurant from Portland, Oregon, to Portland, Maine. Within its pale but sanitary walls one finds a noisy medley of chorus girls, college boys, debutantes, rakes, filles de joie — a not unrepresentative mixture of the gayest of Broadway, and even of Fifth Avenue.

      In the early morning of May the second it was unusually full. Over the marble-topped tables were bent the excited faces of flappers whose fathers owned individual villages. They were eating buckwheat cakes and scrambled eggs with relish and gusto, an accomplishment that it would have been utterly impossible for them to repeat in the same place four hours later.

      Almost the entire crowd were from the Gamma Psi dance at Delmonico’s except for several chorus girls from a midnight revue who sat at a side table and wished they’d taken off a little more make-up after the show. Here and there a drab, mouse-like figure, desperately out of place, watched the butterflies with a weary, puzzled curiosity. But the drab figure was the exception. This was the morning after May Day, and celebration was still in the air.

      Gus Rose, sober but a little dazed, must be classed as one of the drab figures. How he had got himself from Forty-fourth Street to Fifty-ninth Street after the riot was only a hazy half-memory. He had seen the body of Carrol Key put in an ambulance and driven off, and then he had started up town with two or three soldiers. Somewhere between Forty-fourth Street and Fifty-ninth Street the other soldiers had met some women and disappeared. Rose had wandered to Columbus Circle and chosen the gleaming lights of Childs’ to minister to his craving for coffee and doughnuts. He walked in and sat down.

      All around him floated airy, inconsequential chatter and high-pitched laughter. At first he failed to understand, but after a puzzled five minutes he realized that this was the aftermath of some gay party. Here and there a restless, hilarious young man wandered fraternally and familiarly between the tables, shaking hands indiscriminately and pausing occasionally for a facetious chat, while excited waiters, bearing cakes and eggs aloft, swore at him silently, and bumped him out of the way. To Rose, seated at the most inconspicuous and least crowded table, the whole scene was a colorful circus of beauty and riotous pleasure.

      He became gradually aware, after a few moments, that the couple seated diagonally across from him with their backs to the crowd, were not the least interesting pair in the room. The man was drunk. He wore a dinner coat with a dishevelled tie and shirt swollen by spillings of water and wine. His eyes, dim and bloodshot, roved unnaturally from side to side. His breath came short between his lips.

      “He’s been on a spree!” thought Rose.

      The woman was almost if not quite sober. She was pretty, with dark eyes and feverish high color, and she kept her active eyes fixed on her companion with the alertness of a hawk. From time to time she would lean and whisper intently to him, and he would answer by inclining his head heavily or by a particularly ghoulish and repellent wink.

      Rose scrutinized them dumbly for some minutes until the woman gave him a quick, resentful look; then he shifted his gaze to two of the most conspicuously hilarious of the promenaders who were on a protracted circuit of the tables. To his surprise he recognized in one of them the young man by whom he had been so ludicrously entertained at Delmonico’s. This started him thinking of Key with a vague sentimentality, not unmixed with awe. Key was dead. He had fallen thirty-five feet and split his skull like a cracked cocoanut.

      “He was a darn good guy,” thought Rose mournfully. “He was a darn good guy, o’right. That was awful hard luck about him.”

      The two promenaders approached and started down between Rose’s table and the next, addressing friends and strangers alike with jovial familiarity. Suddenly Rose saw the fair-haired one with the prominent teeth stop, look unsteadily at the man and girl opposite, and then begin to move his head disapprovingly from side to side.

      The man with the bloodshot eyes looked up.

      “Gordy,” said the promenader with the prominent teeth, “Gordy.”

      “Hello,” said the man with the stained shirt thickly.

      Prominent teeth shook his finger pessimistically at the pair, giving the woman a glance of aloof condemnation.

      “What’d I tell you Gordy?”

      Gordon stirred in his seat.

      “Go to hell!” he said.

      Dean continued to stand there shaking his finger. The woman began to get angry.

      “You go way!” she cried fiercely. “You’re drunk, that’s what you are!”

      “So’s he,” suggested Dean, staying the motion of his finger and pointing it at Gordon.

      Peter Himmel ambled up, owlish now and oratorically inclined.

      “Here now,” he began as if called upon to deal with some petty dispute between children. “Wha’s all trouble?”

      “You take your friend away,” said Jewel tartly. “He’s bothering us.”

      “What’s at?”

      “You heard me!” she said shrilly. “I said to take your drunken friend away.”

      Her rising voice rang out above the clatter of the restaurant and a waiter came hurrying up.

      “You gotta be more quiet!”

      “That fella’s drunk,” she cried. “He’s insulting us.”

      “Ah-ha, Gordy,” persisted the accused. “What’d I tell you.” He turned to the waiter. “Gordy an’ I friends. Been tryin’ help him, haven’t I, Gordy?”

      Gordy looked up.

      “Help me? Hell, no!”

      Jewel rose suddenly, and seizing Gordon’s arm assisted him to his feet.

      “Come on, Gordy!” she said, leaning toward him and speaking in a half whisper. “Let’s us get out of here. This fella’s got a mean drunk on.”

      Gordon allowed himself to be urged to his feet and started toward the door. Jewel turned for a second and addressed the provoker of their flight.

      “I know all about you!” she said fiercely. “Nice friend, you are, I’ll say. He told me about you.”

      Then she seized Gordon’s arm, and together they made their way through the curious crowd, paid their check, and went out.

      “You’ll have to sit down,” said the waiter to Peter after they had gone.

      “What’s ‘at? Sit down?”

      “Yes — or get out.”

      Peter

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