before. The picture flickered on through scene after scene that
Bud did not see at all, though he was staring unwinkingly at the
screen all the while. The love scenes at the last were poignantly
real, but they passed before his eyes unnoticed. Bud's mind was
dwelling upon certain love scenes of his own. He was feeling
Marie's presence beside him there in the dusk.

"Poor kid--she wasn't so much to blame," he muttered just
above his breath, when the screen was swept clean and blank at
the end of the last reel.

"Huh? Oh, he was the big mutt, right from the start," Frank
replied with the assured air of a connoisseur. "He didn't have
the brains of a bluejay, or he'd have known all the time she was
strong for him."

"I guess that's right," Bud mumbled, but he did not mean what
Frank thought he meant. "Let's go. I want a drink."

Frank was willing enough; too willing, if the truth were known.
They went out into the cool starlight, and hurried across the
side street that was no more than a dusty roadway, to the saloon
where they had spent the afternoon. Bud called for whisky, and
helped himself twice from the bottle which the bartender placed
between them. He did not speak until the second glass was
emptied, and then he turned to Frank with a purple glare in his
eyes.

"Let's have a game of pool or something," he suggested.