little of that whiskey! No slow music in mine, if you please. It makes you disremember to forget.”
Hurd, of Toledo, here pulls out his watch, and says:
“I’m a son of a gun! Got an engagement for a hack ride out to San—Pedro Springs at eleven. Forgot it. A fellow from Noo York, and me, and the Castillo sisters at Rhinegelder’s Garden. That Noo York chap’s a lucky dog—Got one whole lung—good for a year yet. Plenty of money, too. He pays for everything. I can’t afford—to miss the jamboree. Sorry you ain’t going along. Good-by, Goodall, of Memphis.”
He rounds the corner and shuffles away, casting off thus easily the ties of acquaintanceship as the moribund do, the season of dissolution being man’s supreme hour of egoism and selfishness. But he turns and calls back through the fog to the other: “I
