Children and other nonsense. But in the evening they began with a vengeance. Where it was they drank, God alone knows; it was terrible. Carson, his face inflamed and his hat pushed down over his eyes, paid for all sorts of strangers, while some girls were dancing. Somebody broke some glasses and Prokop, sobbing, told Carson about his terrible love for the mysterious woman. On remembering this, Prokop clutched his head with shame and mortification.
Then they put him, shouting “Krakatit,” into the car. Heaven knows where they went; they dashed along endless roads, while beside Prokop there jumped up and down a fiery red spot which must have been Mr. Carson with his cigar. Mr. Carson, who hiccoughed “quicker, Bob” or something of the sort. Suddenly at a corner two lights rushed at them, some voices cried out, the car swung off the road, and Prokop was thrown head first on the grass, which brought him to his senses. There was a sound of several violently disputing voices, accusations of drunkenness. Mr. Carson swore terribly and muttered “now we must go back,” upon which, with thousands of precautions, they carried Prokop, as if he were seriously wounded, into the other car. Mr. Carson sat down next to him and they set out for home, Bob remaining with the injured vehicle. Half-way back the seriously wounded man began to sing rowdily, and just before reaching Prague found that he was thirsty again. They were obliged to go with him to several bars before he quieted down.
Prokop studied his disfigured face in the glass
