Everywhere the drinks flowed in covert streams, growing viler and more nauseous as the pilgrimage advanced. Near Jackson Street they came upon a bedraggled pavilion of dubious gayety which lured them downstairs with its ear-splitting jazz orchestra. A horde of rapacious females descended upon them like starving locusts. Suddenly everybody in the party seemed moved with a desire for dancing--except Fred.

While the others whirled away he sank into a seat, staring vacantly ahead. He had reached the extreme point of his drunkenness and he was pulling toward sobriety again... He came out of his tentative stupor with the realization that a woman was seating herself opposite him.

"What's your name?" he demanded, thickly.

"Ginger," she replied.

He took a sharper look. A pale, somewhat freckled face, topped by a glory of fading red hair, thrust itself rather wistfully forward for his inspection.

"Go 'way!" he waved, disconsolately. "Go 'way. I don't wanna dance!"

She smiled with the pa.s.sive resistance of her kind. "Neither do I,"

she a.s.sented. "Let's just sit here and talk."

"Don't wanna talk!" he threw back, sullenly.

"All right," she agreed; "anything you say... Got a cigarette?"

He drew out a box and she selected one. The waiter hovered about significantly. Fred ordered coffee ... Ginger took Whiterock. They were silent. The music crashed and banged and whinnied, and the air grew thick with the mingled odors of smoke and stale drinks and s.e.x.

Finally Fred leaned forward and said in a whisper, "Tell me--has a snaky-looking dub come into this joint?"

Ginger swept the room with her glance. "In a gray derby and a green tie?"

"Yes."

"He's over in the corner--talking to a couple of fly cops."

He reached for a cigarette himself. His voice was becoming steadier.

"What do you think his game is?"

She pursed her lips. "Oh, I guess he's a private detective," she appraised, shrewdly. "He isn't quite heavy enough for a real bull."

He struck a match. "He's been following me all day," he admitted.

"Somebody's keeping tab, eh?... Is friend wife on the trail?"

He laughed tonelessly and cast the match aside. The sharp little face opposite was quickening with interest.

"No ... I let a bad check get out... _You_ know--no funds."

"Whew!" escaped her. "That isn't pretty!"

"You're d.a.m.ned right it isn't!" he echoed, emphatically.

She clutched at his wrist. "Say, the whole three are coming this way... I guess they've got a warrant... Don't fight back, whatever you do!"

Her words sobered him. She was right--three men were coming toward his table. He rose with a flourish of dignity.

"Looking for me?" he asked.

"If your name is Starratt, we are," one of the men said, moving up closely.

"What's the idea?"

The spokesman of the group flashed his star. "You're wanted on a bad-check charge."

Fred reached for his hat. "All right... Let's get out quietly."

His brain was perfectly clear, but he staggered a trifle as he followed the men along the edge of the dancing s.p.a.ce to the stairway.

The music crashed furiously. Fred's a.s.sociates were giving all their attention to treading the uncertain steps of their tawdry baccha.n.a.l, so they missed his exit.

Halfway up the stair leading to the sidewalk Fred was halted by a touch upon his arm. He had forgotten Ginger, but there she stood with that childish, almost wistful, look on her face.

"Say," she demanded, "can I do anything? I've got a pull if I want to use it."

The other three men turned about and waited. The snaky one laughed.

Fred looked at her curiously.

"You might phone my wife," he returned. "But don't say anything to the boys!"

"Where does she live?... I'll go now and see her. That is--if--"

For a moment Fred Starratt hesitated. Would it be quite the thing to let a woman like this... But as quickly a sense of his ingrat.i.tude swept him. Whether it was the thing or not, it was impossible to wound the one person who stood so ready to serve him. A great compa.s.sion seemed suddenly to flood him--for a moment he forgot his own plight.

"I don't remember the number of the house ... she's with friends.

You'll find the name in the telephone book... Hilmer--Fourteenth Avenue. Ask for Mrs. Starratt."

"Axel Hilmer ... the man who--"

"He's a shipbuilder. Do you know him?"

She smiled wanly. "Yes ... I know lots of people."

Fred felt his arm jerked roughly, and the next thing he found himself half flung, half dragged toward the curb. Instinctively he shook himself free.

"What's the matter?" he demanded.

The ringleader of the group reached forward and grabbed him roughly.

"D'yer think we've got all night to stand around here while you turn on sob stuff with a dance-hall tart? You shut up and come with us!"

"I'm coming as quickly as I can," Starratt retorted.

He was answered by a hard-fisted blow in the pit of the stomach. He doubled up with a gasping groan. A crowd began to gather. Presently he recovered his breath. The blow had completely sobered and calmed him.

He felt that he could face anything now. The jail was just across the street, so they walked, pursued by a knot of curious idlers.

They went through a narrow pa.s.sageway, separating the Hall of Justice from the jails, and rang a bell for the elevator. In stepping into the cage Fred Starratt tripped and lurched forward. He was rewarded by a stinging slap upon the face. He drew himself up, clenching his fists.

He had often wondered how it felt to be seized with a desire to shoot a man down in cold blood. Now he knew.