Joe groaned painfully.
“They—they were out there—everybody, Honey?”
“Everybody, Joe. I tried to think up a lie to tell ’em, but my feet hurt so bad that I couldn’t even think. I had to tell ’em the truth. It was nine o’clock. Aw, it was awful.”
Joe had sunk down in the chair, breathing like a runner who had just finished a hard race.
“I seen Peggy,” said Honey. “My! but she was beautiful! And you hurt her, Joe. I could tell she was hurt bad, but she jist said she was sorry.”
“Oh, my God, don’t!”
Joe lurched out of the chair, panting, hands clenched. Suddenly he flung his hands up to his eyes.
“Oh, what have I done? I don’t understand it. I must have been crazy. Am I crazy now—or dreaming? No, I’m not dreamin’; so I must be crazy. Dead drunk on my weddin’—oh, what’s the matter with the world, anyway?”
He stood in the middle of the saloon, his eyes shut, his face twisted with the pain of it all. He stumbled forward and would have fallen had not Honey grasped him.
“You better go and sleep on it, pardner,” advised Honey.