There were protests, of course; but Fargo was firm.
Released from the tension of playing, Lefty sat stupidly staring at the three red chips in front of him. He was aroused by Russell’s voice: “Come across with seventeen bucks, Locke. You made a bad finish.”
Without a word, the cub pitcher fumbled in his pocket and drew forth a roll of bills. The numbers in the corners were blurred and indistinct. He picked out several at random, tossed them on the table, gathered in the change Russell handed him, and arose slowly to his feet.
For an instant he stood gripping the chairback. The room was going around; the floor tilted dangerously.
“What’s the matter, kid?” came in Fargo’s voice. “You look sort of funny.”
Lefty straightened himself with a great effort. “Nothing,” he said, with laboriously distinct enunciation. “I’ve got a sort of headache. The bad air, I guess.”
Then the men drifted over to the other table, bent on breaking up the game there, and Locke was left alone. He had given up wondering what was the matter with him. His one thought was to get out of the room while he could. Slowly he turned and faced the door. A shout of laughter, followed by the sounds of a good-natured rough-house, told him that the attention of the others was occupied for the moment. He let go his hold on the chair, reeled, recovered himself with an effort, and, with set teeth, slowly, laboriously crossed the room.
It seemed an eternity before his hand touched the panels and fumbled for the knob. The next he knew he was in the still darkness of the hall, steadying himself against the wall. Somewhere in his head a sledge hammer was beating on an anvil. He wondered hazily how long flesh and bone could stand it. He took a step forward. Where was his room? Was it on this floor or the next?
At last he remembered, and began a slow, painful progress down the hall. Several times before reaching the stairs he fell, but at last he struck the bottom step and began to crawl up on hands and knees.