with the whisky flush. He cashed in a double-hand-
ful of chips, stuffed the money he had won into his
coat pocket, walked, with that stiff precision of gait
by which a drunken man strives to hide his drunk-
enness, to the bar and had another drink. Frank
was at his elbow. Frank was staggering, garrulous,
laughing a great deal over very small jokes.

"I'm going to bed," said Bud, his tongue forming
the words with a slow carefulness.

"Come over to my shack, Bud -- rotten hotel.
My bed's clean, anyway." Frank laughed and
plucked him by the sleeve.

"All right," Bud consented gravely. "We'll
take a bottle along."

-129-