Preparing to descend the stairs that led to the cabaret, he was violently pushed aside. Two waiters were forcing a man out into the street. As they brushed past him Byron turned to see them deliver a final kick in the fellow's buttocks. Landing with a thud in the muddy gutter, the victim lay inert, apparently insensible. Byron felt sick. Life was so cruel. For the moment he experienced a pang of compassion for this stranger. I might be that man, he said to himself with a gush of self-pity.
In the dance hall his mood changed perceptibly. The room was crowded; all the tables were occupied with gay men and women, laughing, drinking. A yellow girl in red with a megaphone was making the rounds of the tables. As he stood, hesitating by the doorway, wondering if he could find a place, she shouted her song in his ear:
The girl that was stolen from me,
She's just a child, didn't mean to be wild,
Fell for some one's flat-ter-y.
I got the news she may knock at my door,
I should refuse and I ought to get sore,
But I'll take her back if she wants to come back . . .
I'll be three times God damned if I will! Byron gritted his teeth as he surrendered his coat to the girl in the check-room.
Dawggone, ef that ain't the cat's kanittans! a fat, cheerful-looking black man near him exclaimed.
