“Taxi, sir, take you anywhere—”
A tall chauffeur with dark goggles took him by the arm and lifted him into the cab.
“Where to, sir?”
Floyd bent forward, he knew that voice.
“Tom Dillon!”
“Mr. Garrison. You won’t say anything.”
Floyd grasped his hand with quick sympathy and drew him into the car. Tom choked at first, but gradually recovering himself, told his story.
“I married Maudy, because I couldn’t get her any other way. Oh, she was a kisser. She’d go as far as the fence, but she wouldn’t jump it. We were coming home from a dance up the road. I tried it on. ‘Tom,’ she said, ‘if you want me, you’ll have to marry me.’ I married her. I didn’t take it seriously. I thought this way: It’s as broad as it’s long. When I get enough, there’s Reno. She flung the dough like Hell; I couldn’t see any value for it, only a heap of rags. Anyhow, a man can get liquor and women—”
“Yes, I know.”
Tom shifted uneasily in his seat.