They dressed him to represent a Hindoo snake-charmer, in a white cotton undershirt, baggy chintz trousers, Turkish bath-slippers and a turban made of several twisted towels. Still half-stupefied by Doherty’s “knockout drops,” he was shoved out on a platform before the “Alhambra,” heard muffled voices around him, saw upturned faces below him in a sort of crowded nightmare, and went out into the sunlight and came back into the dark, without understanding the orders he obeyed--dazed and sullen, and all the time groping in the uproar of a drugged brain for a thought that moved somewhere in the obscurity every time Doherty’s face flashed across his memory. He could not recall what had happened. He knew that he had been with Doherty--but that was all. When the costumed staff of the “Alhambra” sat down, inside the booth, to a supper that had been brought in from a neighboring New England kitchen--to save the necessity of changing clothes and going out to an eating house--“Shine” found himself with Simpson, Simpson’s wife, who was the cashier of the ticket office, a boy called “Butts,” who turned the crank of the mechanical piano, and three flaxen-wigged “Queens of the Harem” wrapped in faded dressing robes. Frankfurters, sandwiches and beer had been laid out like a picnic on a trestle-table of rough boards. In the dim light that filtered through a dirty skylight overhead, the powdered shoulders of the women were wanly white and their unpowdered hands were _not_. “Shine” sat humped over his food, unable to eat. Several times he looked up with a momentary blink of intelligence, and then frowned about him in a helpless return of his stupor, his head aching as if it would split. He put his hand to his forehead and cleared his throat. He asked, in a husky and uncertain voice: “Where’s ... Doherty?” Simpson was enjoying the situation. “I guess he’s blowed. I ain’t seen him since mornin’.” “What’d he tell yuh?” “He said yuh was over at Timmin’s lookin’ fer a job.” “Shine” looked up under his eyebrows with a bloodshot glower. “He sloughed me fer ev’rythin’ I had on me.” “I guess you’re right,” Simpson said. “He looked like he had.” “Shine” put his elbows on the table and rested his head in his hands. Simpson winked at his wife. The Queens of the Harem smiled appreciatively, but with care--on account of their “makeup.” After a long silence, “Shine” said weakly, “I got to get back to the boat, I’m off without leave. Gi’ me a pair o’ boots an’ le’ me go.” “Sure thing,” Simpson promised. “There’s a fullah promised he’d be here t’night. I’ll let yuh go as soon ’s he comes.” “I got to go now.” “Long way to walk--in bare hoofs, too. Better work out yer contrac’.” “Shine” tried to focus a wavering eye on him. “Yuh’re in this with Doherty,” he said. “Yuh damn double-crosser. Yuh dirty back-capper!”