As he elbowed in through the crowd at the Northern, those next him
made room at the bar for they recognized the hunger that peers
thus from men's faces. Their manner recalled Glenister to his
senses, and he wrenched himself away. This was not some solitary,
snow-banked road-house. He would not stand and soak himself,
shoulder to shoulder with stevedores and longshoremen. This was
something to be done in secret. He had no pride in it. The man on
his right raised a glass, and the young man strangled a madness to
tear it from his hands. Instead, he hurried back to the theatre
and up to a box, where he drew the curtains.

"Whiskey!" he said, thickly, to the waiter. "Bring it to me fast.
Don't you hear? Whiskey!"

Across the theatre Cherry Malotte had seen him enter and jerk the
curtains together. She arose and went to him, entering without
ceremony.

"What's the matter, boy?" she questioned.

"Ah! I am glad you came. Talk to me."

"Thank you for your few well-chosen remarks," she laughed. "Why
don't you ask me to spring some good, original jokes? You look
like the finish to a six-day go-as-you please. What's up?"

She talked to him for a moment until the waiter entered, then,
when she saw what he bore, she snatched the glass from the tray
and poured the whiskey on the floor. Glenister was on his feet and
had her by the wrist.