The radiator in his room was clanking. He fussed with it for a while and managed to exchange the clank for a hiss-and-dribble. Then he sat down to instruct his mind in the exact mood required for the writing of a letter to the fellows. It took a long time to choose a mood. Afterward he moved to the wicker desk and made a score of false starts.
He had barely got into a proper swing when there was a sharp knock on his door.
“Come in!” he called.
It was one of the club stewards. “There’s a fire!” he said, excitedly. “Mr. Gleason sent me up to tell you! They think it’s the paint works!”
Jimmie streaked from his room and down the corridor. He turned right in its “L” and came to the window at the end. He yanked up the blind. He saw a glow in the night-pinkish orange-lighting distant houses and the groomed contours of the golf course. One of the buildings—he did not know which—had caught fire. He whirled and made for his room. He seized his coat and hat. On the way down the main staircase he realized that he would have to call a cab. He had thought of swiping a car. But he remembered that he was unfamiliar with the new models. He would spend more time fiddling with gadgets than a taxi would need to get there.
He raced past the dining room and slid to a stop. Biff was inside. Biff could drive.
He went back. They were dancing; the lights had been lowered. Jimmie forced his way through the warm, perfumed resentment. He spotted the yellow-haired girl first, cheek to cheek with Biff, standing almost motionless. He grabbed his brother’s arm.
“Hey! There’s a fire at the plant! Run me down, will you?”
Biff emerged from a trance. “Oh, hello, Jimmie. What? I will like hell! This is my first real night out.”
“Come on. I can’t drive. Take a half hour to get a local cab. I need help.”