tops of the swinging doors. The quarter roulette table was busy, the other tables deserted.
"Pete," Ken called, "can I do my old dance once? Maybe someone will throw pennies at me and I'm gonna need them."
"Sure thing," said Pete.
He danced badly. The old swing was gone. He missed an entire series of high kicks because a waiter walked across the floor. The croupier in charge of the quarter roulette wheel scowled at him because several players quit to watch the dance.
The exercise did him good. Especially the feeling of fresh air—sweet pure oxygen pouring in through the open doors, uncontaminated by tobacco smoke.
He started toward the door. "Well," said Pete, "goodbye, you sonovabitch, you come to visit us maybe sometime?"
"I'm hitting for home," said Ken. "Give my girl friend a kick in the pants for old time's sake, Pete, will you?"
A stout young man, sandy haired, his face dominated by a grotesquely large hooknose, back of which were set two button-like blue eyes, approached. The stranger squinted with obvious difficulty down the vast slope of his nose. He was well dressed and spoke with a polite Eastern intonation, flavored with a decided nasal note.
"I don't mean to intrude, but do you work here?" he asked Ken.
"Not any longer. I was fired just now."
"That's a pity. My name is Shaw, Leon Shaw. I confess I'm rather annoyed to find anyone who can dance as well as you in a place of this sort."
