He followed me downstairs into a saloon. Some of the loafers who had heard our talk upstairs came in and crowded up to the bar, and I set up the drinks all around several times. Will wouldn't take any whiskey. Then the bartender let us into a little room at the end of the bar, where we could be by ourselves.
"Will!" I exclaimed, "whatever has happened to you?"
It wrung my heart to see what a wreck he was. He had let his beard grow to cover up his wasted face. His eyes were sunk and bloodshot. The old waterproof covered a thin flannel coat.
"I'm all right," he replied gloomily. "What do you want of me?"
"I want you to come out and get some dinner with me, first," I said.
But he shook his head, saying he must go home to May.
"It ain't no use, Van," he added, in a high, querulous voice. "We don't belong together. May and I are of the people—the people you fatten on."
"Quit that rot! I am one of the people, too."
"Oh, you're Senator, I expect, by this time," he sneered. "What did it cost you, Van?"
"I don't want to talk politics."