Wint said: “Wait till we finish the game.” The old man seemed unconscious of Routt’s presence; and when Routt spoke again, Wint bade him be quiet, and wait. Only when the game was done did he rise. To the old man he said: “Thanks. We’ll have another game. I’ll beat you yet.” The other protested jealously at his going; but Wint said he must. Then, to Routt: “Come upstairs.” “Have you got a room?” Routt asked, amazed; and Wint said: “Yes.” And he went toward the stair. Routt followed him. Mrs. Moody had given Wint that same dingy room in which he had spent the night of his election. They went there, and Wint bade Routt sit down. Routt sat on the bed; Wint stood indolently by the door. Routt exclaimed at once: “Wint, I want you to know this wasn’t my doing. You could have knocked me flat. I’m sorry as hell.” “Of course,” Wint agreed. “I want to know if there isn’t some way we can fix it up,” Routt urged. “There must be something we can do. Some damned thing.” “There’s nothing to fix,” Wint told him. “Nothing to fix? Good God!” Routt shifted his position, reached into his pocket. “My Lord, but I’m knocked out. Shaky. I’ve got to have a drink. Mind?” “Go ahead.” Routt produced a flask. He held it toward Wint. “Have a slug?” Wint shook his head. Routt drank, again asked: “Sure you won’t?” Wint said: “No.” “If I were in your shoes,” said Routt, with the flask still open in his hand, “I’d want to soak myself in it. A good, stiff drunk. There are times when nothing else is any good.” “I used to think so,” Wint agreed. Routt took a second drink, wiped his mouth, screwed the cap on the flask and put it in his pocket. “If you want any, say the word,” he suggested. “Now, Wint, what are we going to do?” Wint, leaning quietly against the wall, stirred a little. “I’m going to tell you something, Routt,” he said. “Tell me? What?” “This,” Wint went on gently, eyes a little wistful. “This. That I--know you now. At last.” Routt sat for an instant very still; then he got to his feet. “Wint, what do you mean?” “I thought you were my--friend,” said Wint. “Stuck to that thought. People warned me. Amos, and father; and--Joan. Said you were not--my friend. But I believed you were.” “Damn it, I am your friend.” “I’m not sorry I held to you as long as I could,” Wint went on impassively. “It’s a good thing to have faith, even in--false friends. But--I know you now, Routt. You’ve made me drunk, played on the worst in me, slandered me, tricked me, played your part in this black thing to-night.” He hesitated, and Routt started to speak, but Wint cut in. “Are you--responsible for Hetty, Jack?” he asked. “Am I?” Routt demanded. “Why, damn you, you said yourself....” “If I thought you were,” Wint told him evenly. “If I thought you had done that to her.... She was a nice girl. Clean. I think I’d take you by the throat, Routt, and kill you here.” Routt cried angrily: “You’re crazy. What the hell! You said yourself that you....”