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cab into gear.
           The place was several miles out in the country. By the time we arrived, there was a long line of cabs and cars waiting to debouch their passengers at the brilliantly lighted entrance. I fell in at the end of the line. As it moved up, I edged the cab forward with it. We got nearer and nearer the entrance, and from the back seat came sounds of high—very high—revelry.
           I had a pretty good idea of what was under way back there, although I did not realize how far it had progressed. But being very merry by now, I saw no reason to admonish my passengers nor to remind them of their whereabouts. Allie had wanted to come to the club. All right, I had brought him and his lady friend here. The rest was up to them. As I saw it, the "lady" could look no worse than she originally had, whatever her present condition.
           The cab crept forward, a car length at a time. Bathed in a boozy, rosy glow, I gazed out at the splendor immediately ahead...Men in tailcoats and tuxedos, women in evening gowns. They milled around beneath the gaily decorated canopy, roamed up and down the broad steps. Laughing, talking, calling hellos to each new arrival.
           The last vehicle ahead of me drove away. I pulled up in its place. The doorman stepped forward smartly and flung open the rear door. There was a grunt, a gasp, a curse—and a thud.
           And out into the entrance, the cynosure of a hundred horrified stares, tumbled Allie and his lady. Each puffing on a cigar. Both completely naked.
           I took one startled glance at them. Then, sliding out of the door on the opposite side, I ran.

7

    Things went very well for me until early spring of the following year. Then the manager of the store which employed me was fired, and everything began to go wrong. The former manager had been a quiet, gentlemanly sort, as kindly to everyone as his job would allow. The man who replaced him was a brassy loudmouth—one of the most deliberately offensive men I have ever known. I had barely got to my desk the day of his arrival when he called me on the carpet.
           "Notice you're keeping a couple of women," he growled. "What I want to know is how you're doing it. How you buying stuff for whores on the dough you make?"
           "Buying stuff for—for—?" I stared at him, open-mouthed. I didn't have the faintest idea what he was talking about.
           "Maybe you've been knocking down a little, huh?" he went on. "Well, you'd better lay off. You want to buy stuff for whores, you have 'em co-sign the account with you. And no phoney names, see? None of this crap that it's for your mother and sister."
           I understood him then, all right. But I could still only stand and stare, sick with a swiftly mounting fury...Mom and Freddie. In one and the same breath he had accused me of fraud and referred to my mother and sister as whores.
           I think I have never been closer to murdering anyone.
           Apparently he saw how I felt.
           "Well,"—he forced an uncomfortable laugh—"guess I kind of got my wires crossed, huh? No offense."
           I didn't say anything; I couldn't. So, after a word or two more of grudging apology, he waved me out of his office.
           My last class at the college let out at 11:50 in the morning, and I had to be at the store at noon. I had no lunch period, then, as the other employees had; and I usually grabbed a bite when I made our afternoon deposit at the bank. I was never more than a few minutes about it—just long enough to gulp down a sandwich and some coffee. Both Durkin and the former manager had consented to the arrangement.
           The new manager, having given me a few days to cool off, called a halt to it.
           Whether I ate or starved was strictly my own headache—see? I could drop my last morning class, or I could do without lunch; that was for me to decide. All he knew was that I