It squealed incessantly, frightfully, and it smelled with a rank fetid odor as though it had lived in graves and eaten of their contents.
Then, as suddenly as he had pulled his hand out of the hat, Walter pushed it down in again, and the thing down with it. The squealing stopped and Walter took his hand out of the hat. He stood there, shaking, his face pale. He got a handkerchief out of his pocket and mopped sweat off his forehead. His voice sounded strange: “I should never have done it.” He ran for the door, opened it, and they heard him stumbling down the stairs.
Mae’s hand came away from her mouth slowly and she said, “T—take me home, Bob.”
Bob passed a hand across his eyes and said, “Gosh, what—” and went across and looked into the hat. His two pennies were in there, but he didn’t reach in to take them out.
He said, his voice cracking once, “What about Elsie? Should we—” Mae got up slowly and said, “Let her sleep it off.” They didn’t talk much on the way home.
* * *
It was two days later that Bob met Elsie on the street. He said, “Hi, Elsie.”
And she said, “Hi, there.” He said, “Gosh, that was some party we had at your studio the other night. We—we drank too much, I guess.”
Something seemed to pass across Elsie’s face for a moment, and then she smiled and said, “Well, I sure did; I passed out like a light.”
Bob grinned back, and said, “I was a little high myself, I guess. Next time I’ll have better manners.”