midst of a desert inferno, but he avoided gazing into the pool again for in it he had seen reflected his own face.
And yet, strangely enough, during this period Ken grew stronger. Because he no longer drank, because he ate sparingly, his eyes became bright, his skin clear, his will more forceful. He no longer was the submerged adolescent of Selma, the naive ephebian of Star-ridge, nor the morally emasculated psuedo-vaquero of Tia Juana, kept man of a prostitute.
Curiously enough, his experiences of the past two years seemed to have given him a quick understanding of many things, now that his body was freed of the woman's greedy attacks upon it. A new attitude—a cynical acceptance of reality—grew. He could be bitingly good-humored now. His tongue, tied for so long, was quick to answer, glib with sharp comment. He viewed the past and even the present with amused tolerance. Although he was no longer a parasite he was still one of a sordid company. In the near future, when he should quit Tia Juana and set forth for Utopia—then he would regain sincerity. Until then he would laugh thinly, acidly, at the world and at himself.
He permitted Anita to slip and fall that Saturday night. She was drunk. She missed a step. She sat down in the center of the floor and cursed him. Her words were not pretty to hear. He laughed mockingly and walked away. A waiter helped her to her feet.
Frank, eyes blazing, told her she could get another job. She wept. She begged him not to put her out. "They ain't no other place I can dance except here, and … and I'm afraid to go into a house," she whimpered.
"You can work the tables on a percentage," he finally said as he spat tobacco juice into a cuspidor. "Now get the
