“Everything—everything,” said Leslie in a stammering voice. “I’m smashed.”
He linked his arm in Anderson’s, and dragged him along hurriedly. He wanted to go, nowhere in particular, but just get away from the spot where Anderson had sentenced his future to death.
“Man, I’m sorry! Man, I’m sorry!” said his companion. “I should not have told you so sudden, but how was I to know?”
“Smashed—smashed—smashed!” said the other, talking as a man talks in his sleep.
He held Anderson by the arm as he spoke. All around spread the many-colored crowd; fans were fluttering, umbrellas bobbing, tongues chattering, soft women’s voices inlaid like music of gold on the silvery music of the fountains and cascades.
“Anderson, man, are you sure they’ve broken—sure?”
“Ay, ay, sure. Better to tell you straight. Sure as my name’s James Anderson.”
Boom! Boom! Boom! the band broke into a march by Gungl, and Leslie, releasing Anderson, ran after a figure in the crowd some twenty paces distant.
“Jane! I must speak to you at once.”
Jane looked up from the little Japanese gentleman who was escorting her, saw the distress in her countryman’s face, and dismissed Asia with a bow.