Swinging himself on the rear end of an open car, he sat down in the shadow. He had intended going directly to Dolan’s Café for a bracer, but just before the car reached that corner the colored lights of a drug store caught his eyes, and, leaping off, he went inside.
Here he got some court-plaster which he applied to the cut on his chin, explaining to the clerk that he had fallen and struck his face on the curbing. That done, he started for Dolan’s.
Almost at the threshold he came face to face with George Burgess and Roland Hewett, who greeted him warmly.
“We’ve been looking all over for you, Morrie,” the former said quickly. “Where the mischief have you been?”
“Oh, up street a ways,” Morrison returned vaguely. “Let’s go in.”
They pushed through the swinging doors, passing the bar, and went on into a large room beyond, which was the distinguishing feature of Dolan’s.
The place was long and lofty, with walls and floor of marble, and was filled with little tables, set around with heavy mission chairs. It was brightly lit with many electric clusters which brought out in their full crudity the gaudy decorations and flashy pictures.
But to the cheap sport of Forest Hills, there was nothing gaudy about it. It represented to him the very acme of luxury, and night after night he would spend the evening there, with others of his kind, in talk and loud-mouthed bragging, smoking cigarettes and stretching to the utmost limit the time allowance of a five-cent glass of beer.
For some vague, inscrutable reason he thought that this was manly. He never seemed to realize what a poor fool he was to waste his short leisure hours in that foul atmosphere, poisoning his lungs, his stomach, and his mind at the same time. He never seemed to know that a man is not valued for his ability to smoke and drink, but for what he is—for what he has done that is worth while and uplifting in this world.
The three fellows sat down at one of the tables, and Morrison touched the bell.