"I'll go," the words were hurled at him, and he handed her Cuter Malone's sack. "Never mind that—"
"Take it! Or I won't touch the hooch."
Reluctantly, she took it and in half an hour she was back and without a word deposited two quart bottles upon the table.
"Will you drink with me?" Brent asked, as he drew the cork.
"No! I'm going, now."
Brent rose to his feet and held out his hand: "Good bye, Kitty," he said, gravely. "I know what you've done for me—and I won't forget it. You'll come to see me—sometimes?"
"No. I hate you! An' if you could see yourself
the way I see you—knowing what you are, and what you ought to be—you'd hate yourself!"
Brent flushed under the sting of the words: "I'm as good a man as I ever was," he muttered, defiantly.
The girl sneered: "You are—like hell! Why, you ain't even got a job—now. You're a bum! You hit the bump that I told you was at the end of your trail—now, where do you go from here?" And before Brent could reply she was gone.