Numbed as they were by the excesses of the evening, it did not take the young men long to lose all clear and vivid remembrance of this recent experience; for the time had come when Nature was offering her last resistance, and their brains were badly awhirl.  Of all the four, Jefferson Locke was the only one who retained his wits to the fullest—­a circumstance that would have proved him the owner of a remarkably steady head had it not been for the fact that he had cunningly substituted water for gin each time it came his turn to drink.  It was a commentary upon the state of his companions that they did not notice the limpid clearness of his beverage.

Dawn found them in an East Side basement drinking-place frequented by the lowest classes.  Ringold was slumbering peacefully, half overflowing the wet surface of a table; Anthony had discovered musical talent in the bartender and was seated at a battered piano, laboriously experimenting with the accompaniment to an Irish ballad; Higgins and Locke were talking earnestly.  It was the slackest, blackest hour in an all-night dive; the nocturnal habitues had slunk away, and the day’s trade had not yet begun.  Higgins, drawn and haggard beneath his drunken flush, was babbling incessantly; Locke, as usual, sat facing the entrance, his eyes watchful, his countenance alert.  In spite of the fact that he had constantly plied his companion with liquor in the hope of stilling his tongue, Higgins seemed incapable of silence, and kept breaking forth into loud, garbled recitals of the scene at Padden’s, which caused the Missourian to shiver with apprehension.  To a sober eye it would have been patent that Locke was laboring under some strong excitement; for every door that opened caused him to start, every stranger that entered made him quake.  He consulted his watch repeatedly, he flushed and paled and fidgeted, then lost himself in frowning meditation.

“Grandes’ fellow I ever met,” Higgins was saying for the hundredth time.  “Got two faults, tha’s all; he’s modesht an’ he’s lazy—­he won’t work.”

“Anthony?”

“Yes.”

Locke stirred himself, and, leaning forward, said:  “You and he are good friends, eh?”

“Best ever.”

“Would you like to play a joke on him?”

“Joke?  Can’t be done.  He’s wises’ guy ever.  I’ve tried it an’ always get the wors’ of it.  Yes, sir, he’s wise guy.  Jus’ got two faults:  he won’t work an’—­”

“Look here!  Why don’t you make him work?”

“Huh?” Higgins turned a pair of bleared, unfocusable eyes upon the speaker.

“Why don’t somebody make him work?”

The lean-faced youth laughed moistly.

“Tha’s good joke.”

“I mean it.”

“Got too much money.  ’S old man puts up reg’lar.”

“Listen!  It’s a shame for a fine fellow like him to go to the dogs.”  Higgins nodded heavily in agreement.  “Why don’t you send him away where he’ll have to rustle?  That’s the joke I meant.”