Behind him he was leaving everything of which he was certain, sordid though it might be. He was going into the unknown, ignorant of his own capabilities, realizing only that he was weak. He thought of those burned bridges, of the uncertainty that lay ahead, of the tumbling of the old temple about his ears—
And doubt came up from the ache in his throat, from the call of his nerves. He had not had a drink since early last evening. He needed—No! That was the last thing he needed.
He sat erect in his seat with the determination and strove to fight down the demands which his wasting had made so steely strong. He felt for his cigarette case. It was empty, but the tobacco pouch held a supply, and as he walked toward the smoking compartment he dusted some of the weed into a rice paper.
Danny pushed aside the curtain to enter, and a fat man bumped him with a violent jolt.
"Oh, excuse me!" he begged, backing off. "Sorry. I'll be back in a jiffy with more substantial apologies."
Three others in the compartment made room for Danny, who lighted his cigarette and drew a great gasp of smoke into his lungs.
In a moment the fat man was back, his eyes dancing. In his hand was a silver whisky flask.
"Now if you don't say this is the finest booze ever turned out of a gin mill, I'll go plumb!" he declared. "Drink, friend, drink!"
He handed the flask to one of the others.
"Here's to you!" the man saluted, raising the flask high and then putting its neck to his mouth.