The old doctor came down the walk and, joining them in the car, slowly took the guitar player by the shoulders.

“I ’spec’ he gonna die though,” said a colored child’s voice mournfully. “Wonder who goin’ to git his box?”

In a room on the second floor of the two-story hotel Harris put on clean clothes, while Mr. Gene lay on the bed with Mike across his stomach.

“Ruined that Christmas tie you came in.” The proprietor was talking in short breaths. “It took it out of Mike, I’m tellin’ you.” He sighed. “First time he’s barked since Bud Milton shot up that Chinese.” He lifted his head and took a long swallow of the hotel whisky, and tears appeared in his warm brown eyes. “Suppose they’d done it on the porch.”

The phone rang.

“See, everybody knows you’re here,” said Mr. Gene.

“Ruth?” he said, lifting the receiver, his voice almost contrite.

But it was for the proprietor.

When he had hung up he said, “That little peanut—he ain’t ever goin’ to learn which end is up. The constable. Got a nigger already in the jail, so he’s runnin’ round to find a place to put this fella of yours with the bottle, and damned if all he can think of ain’t the hotel!”

“Hell, is he going to spend the night with me?”

“Well, the same thing. Across the hall. The other fella may die. Only place in town with a key but the bank, he says.”

“What time is it?” asked Harris all at once.

“Oh, it ain’t late,” said Mr. Gene.

He opened the door for Mike, and the two men followed the dog slowly down the stairs. The light was out on the landing. Harris looked out of the old half-open stained-glass window.

“Is that rain?”

“It’s been rainin’ since dark, but you don’t ever know a thing like that—it’s proverbial.” At the desk he held up a brown package. “Here. I sent Cato after some Memphis whisky for you. He had to do something.”

“Thanks.”

“I’ll see you. I don’t guess you’re goin’ to get away very shortly in the mornin’. I’m real sorry they did it in your car if they were goin’ to do it.”

“That’s all right,” said Harris. “You’d better have a little of this.”

“That? It’d kill me,” said Mr. Gene.

In a drugstore Harris phoned Ruth, a woman he knew in town, and found her at home having a party.

“Tom Harris! Sent by heaven!” she cried. “I was wondering what I’d do about Carol—this baby!”

“What’s the matter with her?”

“No date.”

Some other people wanted to say hello from the party. He listened awhile and said he’d be out.

This had postponed the call to the hospital. He put in another nickel. . . . There was nothing new about the guitar player.