ing, he heard a particularly shocking epithet flung at him, his face lost its amiable smile.
"Who's that big he-man over there?" he asked Jean.
"A lush—that's all," she said.
Through the open door of the kitchenette in which they stood, Ken saw a red-faced bald-headed man who had introduced himself as a local journalist. He was boldly pilfering a pint of rye. A quarrel began. Ken shoved the petty thief into the hall. He was still furious when Jean succeeded in inducing him to leave the suite for a moment.
"I'm goofy from the racket," she said. "Why don't you put them all out and go to bed?"
"No. I don't want to do that," he told her.
"Then let's take a walk."
It was six o'clock. The morning air was raw with a northeast wind. The streets were deserted. For several minutes they did not talk.
"I coulda killed that guy," Ken said. "I've never felt that way before. It scares me."
Jean stopped. "Let's turn back to the hotel," she suggested. "Do you want my advice?"
"Yes."
"Separate the sheep from the wolves or you'll be the goat."
"Meaning what?"
"A fight—trouble—jail."
They paced the gray streets. "You mean I should separate US from them?" he finally asked.
"I do," she said. "They insult you, and you infuriate them. They talk about you behind your back and you're too polite to get sore."
