“You don’t want to fight? You don’t think it means war?”
“Great heavens, no! War!... We don’t want any of that in ours. I guess this country won’t mix in any wars. We’ve been seeing what war means. Anyhow, what should we fight for? England and the Allies are going to lick Germany, aren’t they? Well, let them.”
Potter turned on his heel. He had his answer.
Once more he got into his car and whirled down-town. Once more he stopped before the Pontchartrain and entered the bar. His friends were not there, but he sat down at a table and ordered a drink; he ordered another drink—and another....
His eyes were dark and brooding; the restless urge to recklessness was upon him—that smoldering fire which had made him a young man to be looked upon askance by the respectable. His face was set—and he drank.... Fred La Mothe came through the revolving door, saw Potter, studied his face and his attitude for a moment, and then quietly withdrew. He knew the signs, and had no desire to be in Potter’s company from that hour on.
He sat alone at his table, brooding, drinking from time to time. He felt no hunger, did not arise to eat. The lights came on and still he sat. The room was thronged with the early-evening crowd, and Potter glowered at them—and ordered other drinks.
Presently he stirred uneasily; the spirit of unrest, of recklessness was working within him, urged on by liquor. He pushed himself to his feet, and stood, not too steadily, and his eyes seemed to flame as he glared over the crowd. His face seemed to flame, to be kindling from some fire that surged up from depths inside him. His yellow hair, brushed back from his brow, added to the flamelike semblance of him.
He struck the table with his fist and a glass danced over the edge to smash on the floor.
“It’s a hell of a country,” he said, loudly, “and you’re a hell of a lot of men....”
The room fell silent, and every face was turned toward him. He glared into the upturned eyes.