He stood in a sort of stupor for a minute; finally he lifted his head and went swiftly from a side door. Without a deviating step, he took the shortest cut to the nearest saloon and there he drank until he became wild, so that he began throwing glasses and abusing the furniture. He was venting the insane anger that swelled up in his breast on anything that came in his way. Chairs and tables flew before him. Heavy bottles and glasses went crashing. It was an accident that a poorly aimed decanter smashed through the frosted glass of the front door, allowing the passers-by to see what was going on inside. Martin Moreland, who never lost sight of Junior for long, had seen him draw Mahala into the flowery enclosure. In an ambling way he had sauntered to the front side of the flowers and taken up a position where he could hear what was being said while he was pretending smilingly to watch the dancers with great interest. With that smile on his lips, his clenched hands were aching to strike. The savage anger that many times in his life had overtaken and swayed him, was swelling up in such a tide as his tried heart never before had known. He wanted to take Mahala in her flowerlike whiteness, and twist his fingers around her delicate neck until the very eyes would pop from her head. He wanted to do anything that was savage and cruel and merciless to the girl who would thrust aside and repulse his son. He realized, with that craft which forever walked hand in hand with love in his heart, that he must take care of Junior. He must avoid scandal. He hurried from the side door, knowing where he would find his boy. He had reached the saloon and had his hand upon the door when the glass came crashing into his face. Through the opening he saw Junior flushed and dishevelled, his clothing already stained and ruined in a wild debauch. Shaking off the splintered glass, he entered. He ordered the proprietor to nail a piece of carpet, anything, over the opening immediately; then he took his place beside Junior and made a deceiving pretense of helping him to demolish the saloon. Surprised at this, Junior stood watching his father who was really doing no very great damage. He began to laugh and applaud; then he consented to sit down at a table and drink with his father, and very speedily his condition became helpless. Then Martin Moreland sent for his carriage and took his boy home and with his own hands undressed him and put him into his bed, a horrible contrast with the lad who had left the room a few hours earlier.