Clinton went to the kitchen. As he took a glass from the shelf, his mother stopped weeping and glared at him in horror. “I forbid you to drink liquor.” But Clinton instinctively allied himself with Ralph. He took the glass and left Annabel in the kitchen. “Et tu, Brute?” she said, as the door swung closed.

In the living room, Ralph poured four generous helpings of bourbon from the pint in his pocket, and one smaller share in the glass Clinton held out to him. He distributed the glasses among his guests, then, raising his own, he said, in a voice colored with emotion that Clinton knew to be utterly sincere:

“Honored guests, I would like to propose a toast in honor of the greatest man that ever drew breath. As you all know, tonight’s his birthday. So let’s all drink to him, to Jesus Christ—the founder of the Socialist Party!”

Clinton saw Annabel in the doorway. She raised her eyes to heaven as if begging forgiveness for this blasphemy. But Clinton drank with the others. When the liquor went down, he drew a deep breath and tensed the muscles of his throat. The burning was furious but not overwhelming, and he felt immediately drunk.

Annabel entered the room carrying her pocketbook, and accompanied by the dry swooshing of her skirts. Her manner was animated and gay, but her eyes shone with a cold, impenetrable glaze that demanded attention.

“Well! Surrounded by one-two-three-four-five handsome men! Aren’t I a lucky stiff? Now listen, gentlemen, it’s Christmas!” She perched herself brightly on the pouf. “And Christmas is the nicest time of all,” she continued, without a hint of malice. Then, addressing herself to the strangers: “We have one more son that you haven’t met yet, our Clinton’s older brother.” Clinton stood next to her. She took his hand, kissed it lightly, then went on holding it. “My husband and all of us miss him very much, especially at Christmastime.” The toothless old man at this point put in some incomprehensible remark. Annabel smiled appreciatively, and continued: “And we have this big old empty house just going to waste. So we’d just love to have you all stay the night and enjoy Christmas dinner with us. But only if you’d enjoy it, too. Isn’t that so, Ralph?”

Ralph looked at her, but he remained silent: there was no way of knowing how the wind blew. Annabel opened her pocketbook. “I’m almost sure I have here three crisp new ten-dollar bills.”

Clinton looked at the strangers: the eyes of each of them were fixed hungrily on Annabel’s pocketbook.

“So you can have your choice,” she concluded, rising from the pouf and holding the bills in her hand. The visitors rose too, their eyes on the money. The older man glanced briefly at his companions; then he stepped forward like the chairman of a committee and once again engulfed Annabel’s hand in both of his own. When he had finished a speech of considerable length, the three bills were in his pocket and he had retreated to the front door. The other men followed him out.