"Beast of a song! He'll die to-night, drinking." "Die yourself," mumbled the singer, "'m goin' sleep.

More 'n you can do." A groan from the players, and the vicious flip of a card, acknowledged the hit.

Rudolph joined them, ungreeting and ungreeted.

The game went on grimly, with now and then the tinkle of ice, or the popping of soda bottles.

Sharp cords and flaccid folds in Wutzler's neck, Chantel's brown cheeks, the point of Heywood's resolute chin, shone wet and polished in the lamplight.