those windows, through which drifted distant and dying sounds of the celebrating Kingsbridgers. Then he motioned his companions to chairs, himself taking the swivel in front of his littered, untidy desk.
"Had to let my stenographer off for the game," he said. "She made a bluff that she was half sick and had a terrible headache, but I knew what ailed her, and I cured her by giving her a pass. She'll come back to-morrow feeling worse than ever over our licking."
"Natural enough," said Dyke, sitting down. "It'll make the whole town sick."
Riley's chair cracked under his weight. "Ain't got a swaller of somethin' round here, have ye, Kilgore?" he asked.
The lawyer produced a "longnecker" and a dirty glass. "Running water in the back room if you want it," he said.
But the manager, having no desire to dilute the amber liquid with which he almost overran the glass, and disdaining a "chaser," took his "straight." Dyke followed with a small "nip," but Kilgore asked to be excused from joining them, and put away the bottle and glass.
Heavy steps sounded on the stairs. A tall, slim, sallow man entered, a puffing, red-faced, rolypoly
