The conversation was interrupted by the angry and maudlin exclamations of a girl. She had been sitting at a distant table half asleep. A porter had wakened her. "I won't go home and sleep," she shrieked. "Keep your hands off me, you dirty nigger." "Now what's the trouble?" demanded Druce of Anson. "Swede Rose has been drunk all night." "We've got to get rid of her. She's always pulling this rough stuff." "Not now," warned Anson. "It's too hard to get new girls. When she's sober she's a wise money getter." "Damn her," muttered Druce, "I don't like her anyway. She had the nerve to slap my face the other night because I wouldn't give her money for hop. As soon as this lease is signed I'm going down state. I'll bring back some new stock and then it's 'On your way' for that wildcat." "Let me handle her," advised Anson. He got up and walked over to the table where the girl was having the altercation with the negro. She was still young, but drink and drugs had left ineffaceable lines upon her face. She was beautiful, even this morning after her night's debauch, for she possessed a regularity of feature and a fine contour of figure that not even death itself could wreck. Her disheveled hair showed here and there traces of gray. Her skin was a dead white, save where two pink spots blazed in either cheek. "Here he comes," called the girl, catching sight of Anson. "Good old Carter. Ans," she went on, "chase this coon out of here; he won't let me sleep." Anson motioned the porter to keep his distance. "An' say, Ans," the girl went on, "gimme a quarter. I'm broke and I got to have some hop or die." Anson handed the negro a quarter without a word. The porter hurried out of the cafe. "He wanted to chase me out," the girl whimpered. "Well, Rose," Anson went on pacifically, "you've got to cut out this all night booze thing. You're hurting the house." The girl looked up at the dive keeper with dull eyes. "Hurting the house, eh?" she echoed. "What about me? Think I ain't hurting myself? Say, it's got so I'd rather be drunk than sober. I can't stand to be sober. I always start thinking. Some of these days you'll hear of me walking out of this place and making a dent in the lake--" The negro returned with the drug. The girl seized it with trembling hands. While the two men stood and looked she drew a small lancet from the bosom of her dress, inserted its point under the skin of her white forearm and drove a few drops of the drug into the vein. The effect was instantaneous. She laughed loudly. "Now, you get to bed," ordered Anson. "Bed, hell," retorted the girl. "I said get to bed." Anson glowered at her. "There'll be a big night tonight, and--" "You can't give me no orders." Anson had held in his temper as long as he was able. His fierce eyes twinkled and his brutal mouth twitched. Without a word he reached across the table, clutched the girl by the throat and dragged her out of her seat. He hurled her, half strangled, on the floor.