He was still sipping with his back toward the front room and the game when he felt a touch upon his arm. He turned quickly. There stood the dealer.
"Hello, Charlie!" he said in some surprise. "Your recess? Do you want me to apologize for taking that young cub out and making all that row?"
The dealer shook his head. "That was right enough. I've been thinking about him for some—" He stopped short and swallowed—something; possibly a lump or something of the kind. But it is not conceivable that such a man can have the more usual emotions of pity and charity. For they are the usual emotions, whatever you may say against it. If Everett had only known it, that was the very trouble with him. He had not been thirsty, primarily. His thirst was but a physical symptom of his mental state.
But I interrupted the dealer. He was speaking again. "I should like to ask you a question, Mr. Morton," he said.
"What is it, Charlie?" Everett felt but a passing interest in his question.
"I noticed that you called the young man Ladue."
"Did I? That was very thoughtless of me. I apologize."
The dealer did not smile, but went on, apparently pursuing his object, whatever that was. "And the other man spoke of Sally."
"Indeed! That was even more thoughtless."
"Charlie Ladue," the dealer continued in an even voice, "and Sally. It sounds as if Sally should be his sister. Is she?"