He wandered more slowly on his way, wondering with fresh interest what his
friends, the women, would say when they read his new book. His title for it
was "Mothers." It was to be a tremendous surprise.

Suddenly his face became serious. He faced the sound of a distant
phonograph. It was not the phonograph in Quade's place, but that of a rival
dealer in soft drinks at the end of the "street." For a moment Aldous
hesitated. Then he turned in the direction of the camp.

Quade was bolstered up on a stool, his back against the thin partition,
when John Aldous sauntered in. There was still a groggy look in his mottled
face. His thick bulk hung a bit limply. In his heavy-lidded eyes,
under-hung by watery pouches of sin and dissipation, there was a vengeful
and beastlike glare. He was surrounded by his friends. One of them was
taking a wet cloth from his head. There were a dozen in the canvas-walled
room, all with their backs to the door, their eyes upon their fallen and
dishonoured chief. For a moment John Aldous paused in the door. The cool
and insolent smile hovered about his lips again, and little crinkles had
gathered at the corners of his eyes.

"Did I hit you pretty hard, Bill?" he asked.

Every head was turned toward him. Bill Quade stared, his mouth open. He
staggered to his feet, and stood dizzily.

"You--damn you!" he cried huskily.

Three or four of the men had already begun to move toward the stranger.
Their hands were knotted, their faces murderously dark.