“Well, Rose,” Anson went on pacifically, “you’ve got to cut out this all night booze thing. You’re hurting the house.”
The girl looked up at the dive keeper with dull eyes.
“Hurting the house, eh?” she echoed. “What about me? Think I ain’t hurting myself? Say, it’s got so I’d rather be drunk than sober. I can’t stand to be sober. I always start thinking. Some of these days you’ll hear of me walking out of this place and making a dent in the lake—”
The negro returned with the drug. The girl seized it with trembling hands. While the two men stood and looked she drew a small lancet from the bosom of her dress, inserted its point under the skin of her white forearm and drove a few drops of the drug into the vein. The effect was instantaneous. She laughed loudly.
“Now, you get to bed,” ordered Anson.
“Bed, hell,” retorted the girl.
“I said get to bed.” Anson glowered at her.
“There’ll be a big night tonight, and—”
“You can’t give me no orders.”
Anson had held in his temper as long as he was able. His fierce eyes twinkled and his brutal mouth twitched. Without a word he reached across the table, clutched the girl by the throat and dragged her out of her seat. He hurled her, half strangled, on the floor.