y before
he attempted an advance. Then, with wide-stretched arms, he bore down
cautiously upon her. When he had her almost within reach she darted
along the edge of the room. He attempted a sudden change in direction,
which ended disastrously, and he found himself very much sprawled out
upon the floor. He was aware of laughter, but what cared he? He was
disposed to sleep. What better place to sleep than this? What better
time to sleep than this? In a moment he was lost to all consciousness.
. . .

It was later in the night when he felt himself being dragged into a
sitting posture. He remonstrated in a mumbling voice. "'S too early,"
he said. "Altogether too early. Early. Whew! Watch 'er spin. Jus'
his job. Paid for it, ain't he?"

"Well, I ain't paid for this," said Conward, rather roughly, "and you
got to pull yourself together. Here, take a little of this; it'll put
some gimp into you." He pressed a glass to his lips, and Dave
swallowed.

"Where am I?" he said, blinking at the light.

He rose uncertainly to his feet and stared about the room in returning
consciousness.

"Where's the girls?" he asked.

"Gone," said Conward, sulkily. "Couldn't expect 'em to stick around
all night to say good bye, could you, and you sleeping off your drunk?"

Dave raised his hand to his head. A sense of disgrace was already upon
him. Then he suddenly turned in anger on Conward.

"You put this up on me," he cried. "You made a fool of me. I've a
mind to bash your skull in for you."

"Don't be silly," Conward retorted. "I didn't enjoy it any more than
you did--introducing you as my friend, and then have you go out like
that. Why didn't you tip me? I didn't know it would put you to sleep."

"Neither did I," said Dave.

"Well, the next thing is to get you home. Can you walk?"

"Sure." Dave started for the door, but his course suddenly veered, and
he found himself leaning over a chair. Conward helped him into his
overcoat, and half led, half shoved him to his boarding house.

CHAPTER SIX

Elden awoke Sunday morning with a feeling that his head had been
boiled. Also he had a prodigious thirst, which he slacked
[Transcriber's note: slaked?] at the water pitcher. It was the
practice of Metford's gang to select one of their number to care for
all the horses on Sundays, while the others enjoyed the luxury of their
one day of leisure. In consequence of this custom the room was still
full of sn