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distant corner. Steady old Brad, who never drank, who never dissipated, alone in this dive! . . .

Jock leaned back in his chair, feeling suddenly shaken and tired and a little old. Brad. Alone. When you came to a Black-and-Tan with a crowd, that was one thing. You were sight-seeing, then; being devilish in a different way. You meant no evil. But when you came alone, a sneak in the night, that was something else again. . . . Brad. Of all people.

The others were watching a woman dance, a fat black woman in brief striped satin knickers and red stockings. They were making jocular comments among themselves. None of them had discovered Brad as yet, and Jock became determined on the instant that none should discover him. "I'll have to let him know we're here," he told himself. "I'll have to get him out somehow—or the whole college will be talking about it in the morning——"

As though this thought had traveled with incredible swiftness across the dusky air, Brad turned his head and saw them. And if Jock had had any doubts in his mind as to Brad's guilt, he lost them now. Brad rose instantly and moved along the far aisle, his head bent low, his hat on, shading his face. . . . In a moment he had vanished through the outer door.

"Pretended he didn't know me," Jock thought. "Slinking out like a criminal. Brad! If it was anyone else I wouldn't care, but Brad—why, it—it's like losing your faith in God!"

He pushed back his chair and stood up. "I'm going," he said gruffly.

Attention centered on him then, and voices pattered against his ears: "What for?" . . . "Going? Why, we just got here!" . . . "What's the big idea?" . . . "What's the matter, Jock, got cold feet or some-