Of all the four, Jefferson Locke was the only one who retained his
wits to the fullest--a circumstance that would have proved him the
owner of a remarkably steady head had it not been for the fact
that he had cunningly substituted water for gin each time it came
his turn to drink. It was a commentary upon the state of his
companions that they did not notice the limpid clearness of his
beverage.
Dawn found them in an East Side basement drinking-place frequented
by the lowest classes. Ringold was slumbering peacefully, half
overflowing the wet surface of a table; Anthony had discovered
musical talent in the bartender and was seated at a battered
piano, laboriously experimenting with the accompaniment to an
Irish ballad; Higgins and Locke were talking earnestly. It was the
slackest, blackest hour in an all-night dive; the nocturnal
habitues had slunk away, and the day's trade had not yet begun.
Higgins, drawn and haggard beneath his drunken flush, was babbling
incessantly; Locke, as usual, sat facing the entrance, his eyes
watchful, his countenance alert. In spite of the fact that he had
constantly plied his companion with liquor in the hope of stilling
his tongue, Higgins seemed incapable of silence, and kept breaking
forth into loud, garbled recitals of the scene at Padden's, which
caused the Missourian to shiver with apprehension.
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