The same formula, “Regards,” was repeated.
Loring leaned in comfort against the bar. The attitude, unfortunately, was not strange to him. Time and time again, on Stephen’s invitation, the glasses were refilled, while every now and then Hankins insisted, “One on the house.” After the first two drinks, however, the latter and his partner drank only beer, while Loring continued to drink straight whisky. The other men had one by one departed, so that Loring and his companions were left alone.
Stephen’s face began to burn. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror that hung behind the bar. Somehow the dull-eyed, white face which looked back at him seemed to have no connection with the radiant creature that he felt himself to be.
At this juncture Jackson made a suggestion.
“What do you say to a little game, gents?”
“By—all—means,” exclaimed Loring, emphasizing each word as if it were the last of the sentence.
Hankins, stooping behind the bar, brought up a pack of cards.
“Here’s an unopened deck,” he said. With queer little side look at his partner, he went on. “I’ll get even with you for our last game, Jackie.”
Stephen, with footsteps that came down very hard, walked over to one of the tables. Then he stopped.
“I—haven’t—got—much—money—here,” he said. He enunciated with the heavy, precise diction of a man who knows, but will not believe that he is drunk.