He took out his wallet and deliberately counted out seventy-five dollars in bills. “Here,” he said, holding them out, “here’s seventy-five; that makes eighty all together. That’s all the actual cash I have with me, besides what I’ll actually spend on the trip.” Gordon raised his clenched hand automatically, opened it as though it were a tongs he was holding, and clenched it again on the money. “I’ll see you at the dance,” continued Dean. “I’ve got to get along to the barber shop.” “So-long,” said Gordon in a strained and husky voice. “So-long.” Dean, began to smile, but seemed to change his mind. He nodded briskly and disappeared. But Gordon stood there, his handsome face awry with distress, the roll of bills clenched tightly in his hand. Then, blinded by sudden tears, he stumbled clumsily down the Biltmore steps. III About nine o’clock of the same night two human beings came out of a cheap restaurant in Sixth Avenue. They were ugly, ill-nourished, devoid of all except the very lowest form of intelligence, and without even that animal exuberance that in itself brings color into life; they were lately vermin-ridden, cold, and hungry in a dirty town of a strange land; they were poor, friendless; tossed as driftwood from their births, they would be tossed as driftwood to their deaths. They were dressed in the uniform of the United States Army, and on the shoulder of each was the insignia of a drafted division from New Jersey, landed three days before. The taller of the two was named Carrol Key, a name hinting that in his veins, however thinly diluted by generations of degeneration, ran blood of some potentiality. But one could stare endlessly at the long, chinless face, the dull, watery eyes, and high cheek-bones, without finding suggestion of either ancestral worth or native resourcefulness. His companion was swart and bandy-legged, with rat-eyes and a much-broken hooked nose. His defiant air was obviously a pretense, a weapon of protection borrowed from that world of snarl and snap, of physical bluff and physical menace, in which he had always lived. His name was Gus Rose. Leaving the café they sauntered down Sixth Avenue, wielding toothpicks with great gusto and complete detachment. “Where to?” asked Rose, in a tone which implied that he would not be surprised if Key suggested the South Sea Islands. “What you say we see if we can getta holda some liquor?” Prohibition was not yet. The ginger in the suggestion was caused by the law forbidding the selling of liquor to soldiers. Rose agreed enthusiastically. “I got an idea,” continued Key, after a moment’s thought, “I got a brother somewhere.” “In New York?” “Yeah. He’s an old fella.” He meant that he was an elder brother. “He’s a waiter in a hash joint.” “Maybe he can get us some.” “I’ll say he can!” “B’lieve me, I’m goin’ to get this darn uniform off me to-morra. Never get me in it again, neither. I’m goin’ to get me some regular clothes.” “Say, maybe I’m not.”