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The Aryan
235
"Going on," said Steve promptly. "Next train south."
"You've got a wait of an hour and twenty minutes. Come -in and celebrate. The drinks are on me."
'"One little drink, maybe," hesitated Steve, and added : "I've got to go to the post office. There may be mail for me."
"I'll send for it. What's the name?" "Steve Denton."
It is an old story — old as the world. The tree of the knowledge of good and evil lured Steve as it lured Adam. And inevitably it spells destruction.
tables; of laughter and shrieks; of mingled profanity and song.
He knew he had taken part in a fight. It had something to do with one of the dance-hall girls whom they called Trixie the Firefly, a girl with a baby stare who affected the innocence and garb of a country maid, a girl young in years but old in wickedness.
He had shuffled through a dance with her; and somebody — Trixie's lover; Chip Emmett he had heard him called — had suddenly burst on the scene and threatened the girl. He remembered that the Firefly had dropped on her knees and Emmett stood over her with
The Firefly dropped on her knees and Emmett stood over her, his hand upraised.
How many drinks he consumed, Steve could not have told. He had a hazy memory afterward of women in abbreviated skirts and bared shoulders dancing with perspiring miners ; of bottles and glasses on none too clean
his hand upraised. Then Steve had flung himself into action, pulled his fort}-four, and would have blown the trouble maker into eternity if he had had a cartridge in his gun. But it was empty.