He turned in on the asphalt at full speed, and wheeled with the recklessness of a battery going into action; and before the team could catch breath, he had unhitched the tugs, and freed the pole, and vaulted to "Sharkey's" back, and set off at a gallop to the stables.
He hoped to be married that night. At least, there was a possibility that he might be. And his bride-elect would leave Sturm & Bergman's display rooms at six. She might wait for him, and she might not.
It was already half-past five when he hurried into a water-front saloon to get a bundle of clothes that he had left with the barkeeper that morning; and he struggled in the little washroom there—fighting with starched linen and twisted suspenders—to get himself into his wedding garments. It was a hot August evening. His fingers were slippery with perspiration. His neck was swelled with blood. He strangled in his efforts to fasten his celluloid collar. And every time that he paused to take breath, he wiped his forehead on his shirt-sleeve and sighed hard.
He ran for a street-car with his coat over his arm, pawing at the back of his necktie in an attempt to catch it under his collar-button. The conductor pulled him to the platform as the car started with a jerk. "Wha' 's the time?" he gasped.
The conductor thrust him aside. "Quart' t' six."
He clung to the brass hand-rail weakly. He had had no food since breakfast, except a glass of beer and some free-lunch biscuits. His legs were aching from
