African dirge. He found a path to a table where Howard sat. "C'me'ere," he said.
A moment later he was holding Howard's arm. "Get me out of here, Howie," he was saying. "Get me out of here before I make a fool of myself—quick."
Howard laughed. "You're drunk again. That's all. Where'd you get it?"
"For God's sake, Howard, I'm not—I'm not kidding. I know myself. I'm a fool, I tell you, a fool."
"Ssh …" Howard placed a hand on his mouth. The dance had ended. Sallow faces, sharp eyes watched them. Myles Hollinger, the columnist, tall, dark, good looking, was entering the room. Someone called "Psst!" Hollinger crossed the floor to the table where Howard had been sitting.
"I gotta go home, Howie," Ken pleaded. "Don't ask me why. If I don't get home, I'll do something I shouldn't. I must go."
Howard laughed. "I'll take you." He turned and caught Hollinger's eye. He rose, crossed to the table where Hollinger sat. "If you make a sob story out of this for your dirty column of imitation O. Henry, I'll black both your eyes and knock a few of your teeth out."
Hollinger said nothing. Howard suddenly realized he had made a grave mistake. The whole incident would be in the week-end newspaper. "I'm sorry," he said apologetically. "The boy is drunk."
Ken moved to the Algonquin the following afternoon. His belongings were relatively few and as Rutgers was enjoying a day off it was easy to escape.
He carefully phrased a note to Howard. "Forgive me
