XXI
IN the train, narrow in a berth, slant wise, trying to sleep, Ken was ill. It was Sunday night. Joe Durazzo hovered over him.
"It wasn't so much missing the show," he said. "Old man Vee will probably forgive you for that. But scaring us. Where was you, Ken?"
"With Rocco," Ken murmured between dry, caked lips.
"I knew Rocco's stuff," Joe continued. "But the others thought you was being kidnapped. I knew different. You ain't got enough to make it worth while snatching you." He talked on. With a sudden start, Ken sat up.
"I got the heebie-jeebies," he said. His face was pale, a thin white fist on his cheeks. "I got the jitters. I gotta have a drink." Joe poured a thimble full of rye in a collapsible silver cup.
"I'll be all right in the morning," Ken spoke reassuringly. "I've been crazy to drink so much. I mixed drinks too. And acted pretty awful."
"You're funny," Joe remarked. "I see lots of wild babies but you take the cake."
The train hurrying through the night toward New York lulled Ken into drowsiness. Joe switched off the light and climbed into the adjoining berth. He was soon sleeping.
Little things counted for much in the morning. The jerky gait of the night before was gone. With it had vanished that curious sensation of an opaque world, fight-
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