because he objected to Sandy's economy of clean, hot water. Sandy
flattened his nose against the window, saw that Ford, leaning well
forward against the drive of the wind, was battling his way toward the
hotel, and guessed shrewdly that he would see him no more that day.

"He better keep sober till his knuckles git well, anyway," he mumbled
disapprovingly. "If he goes to fighting, the shape he's in now--"

Ford had no intention of fighting. He went straight up to the bar, it is
true, but that was because he saw that Sam was at that moment
unoccupied, save with a large lump of gum. Being at the bar, he drank a
glass of whisky; not of deliberate intent, but merely from force of
habit. Once down, however, the familiar glow of it through his being was
exceedingly grateful, and he took another for good measure.

"H'lo, Ford," Sam bethought him to say, after he had gravely taken
mental note of each separate scar of battle, and had shifted his cud to
the other side of his mouth, and had squeezed it meditatively between
his teeth. "Feel as rocky as you look?"

"Possibly." Ford's eyes forbade further personalities. "I'm out after
information, Sam, and if you've got any you aren't using, I'd advise you
to pass it over; I can use a lot, this morning. Were you sober, night
before last?"

Sam chewed solemnly while he considered. "Tolerable sober, yes," he
decided at last. "Sober enough to tend to business; why?"

With his empty glass Ford wrote invisible scrolls upon the bar. "I--did
you happen to see--my--the lady I married?" He had been embarrassed at