room he had taught them a song and they were lustily singing it. Scraps of sound penetrated beyond the closed doors: Tom's clear if slightly inarticulate tenor:
I ain't got no father,
I ain't got no father,
To buy the clothes I wear."
And then a chorus, rather more noisy than musical:
I'm a poor lonesome cowboy,
I'm a poor lonesome cowboy,
And a long ways from home."
The song was interminable. It appeared that Tom not only lacked a father, but divers other members of a family. The wailing chorus rose over the clatter of dishes in the dining room, and over the hum of conversation. People began to listen and comment, and one of the governors of the club, a gentleman of great dignity in impeccable evening clothes, came in and made a protest.
"Not quite so much noise here, gentlemen," he said. "If you feel you must sing, there is plenty of room outside."
Nine o'clock came, and nine-thirty, and Kay had not come. And always they were pressing drinks on him. Out of the generosity of cocktails and highballs they expanded to champagne.
"The way you find liquor, you'd sure make a good bird dog!" was Tom's comment to the man who brought it.
By ten o'clock, although he was still perfectly steady, he was concealing his resentment at Kay's defection under a swaggering boastfulness.
"Sure I shot him. He owed me a bill for that cow, and I collected it. You don't think we fellows ride the range for our health, do you? Why, say, the Sheriff's got a warrant for me for everything from arson to murder, right now."
