Suddenly the mist lifted from Joe’s brain and he remembered. It came to him like an electric shock. He was to be married!
He stumbled to the door and flung it open. It was dark out there, the street deserted. Wonderingly he looked at his watch.
Eleven o’clock!
Slowly he went back to the bed and sat down, holding his head in his hands. What night was it? he wondered. Was it the night of his marriage—or the night before? No, it couldn’t be the night before. He remembered everything. And now he remembered that Honey was wearing a white collar. Nothing but a marriage or a funeral would cause Honey to wear a white collar.
He felt nauseated, dry-throated. What had he done? There was a light in the Pinnacle Saloon; so he went over there. The cool night air revived him a little, but his legs did not track very well.
Honey and Len were at the bar, talking with the bartender, when Joe came in.
“Gosh, you shore look like the breakin’ up of a hard winter, pardner,” observed Honey.
Joe came up to the bar and hooked one elbow over the polished top. He wanted to sit down, but forced himself to stand.
“Honey,” he said hoarsely, “what night is this?”
“What night? Joe, you fool, this was yore weddin’ night!”