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Gordon’s!⁠ ⁠… Gordon’s⁠—the colourful!⁠ ⁠… Gordon’s⁠—the exotic!⁠ ⁠… Gordon’s at two-thirty in the morning!⁠ ⁠… Brilliantly lighted, packed to suffocation, strangling in the smoke, sticky with sweat; shrill with gin, begotten of dirty messes in mouldy cellars and proudly carried in monogrammed silver flasks; clamorous with the new music but lately imported, duty free, from the head waters of the Congo and brought to triumphant perfection by the highest paid orchestra in the States⁠—fresh from New York where its engagement had been abruptly terminated by a padlock⁠ ⁠… Gordon’s Gardens!

Fiddles squeaked, saxophones squealed, oboes giggled, clarinets wailed, tubas yawped, triangles clanged⁠ ⁠… “Lament of the Damned,” perhaps?⁠ ⁠… Not at all!⁠ ⁠… “I’m Lonesome and Blue for You.”

Bobby Merrick, waiting in the rococo lobby for his coat check, listened with the ear of a man from Mars and drew a crooked smile.

His coming had been quite on impulse. Long before the train had reached Detroit, he had made up his mind not to go out to Gordon’s. The announcement of his decision had, he observed, eased the constraint that had fallen upon their talk. Tom had brightened, visibly, though making gallant pretence of disappointment.

“I’ve a book that interests me,” explained Bobby. “I’d rather go to the club and read it than mill around with a lot of high school sheiks.”

“And then there’s your rheumatism, Uncle Dudley!” sniffed Masterson. “You ought to be careful at your age⁠ ⁠… Aw⁠—why don’t you snap out of it?”

“No⁠—I’ve graduated from all that stuff. It’s the bunk! It’s too depressing, Tommy⁠ ⁠… Everybody pretending!⁠ ⁠… Little chap at the next table poking his fork occasionally into a cold dinner that costs him seventeen dollars for the two of them⁠—half his week’s wages⁠ ⁠… Hopping up with his mouth full to push Mazie around again through the wriggling pack, wishing he had the courage to ask her to marry him, and wondering where he’d dig up three hundred for a sparkler⁠ ⁠… Mazie wouldn’t wear one that cost a nickel less⁠ ⁠… And that sad wail they dance to; though⁠—God knows⁠—one can’t blame Clarence for liking sad music. He’s a sad young man. His credit’s bad with his papa, and he’s been drinking too much Dago mash.”

“Have you ever thought of joining the W.C.T.U.?”

“Don’t get peevish, Tommy. You run out to Gordon’s and give ’em what you got for your last story, and I’ll go read my book.”

“That must be a damned fine book. What’s its name?”

“Oh⁠—it’s a treatise by a medical man. You couldn’t read it.”

“Taking yourself rather seriously, aren’t you?”

“Asclepius is as jealous as Jehovah, my son.”

By consent, they had stopped ragging each other, and Bobby was asking interestedly about various members of the set from which his attention had lately been deflected.

On mention of Joyce’s name, he inquired casually, “Seeing much of her, these days, Tommy?”

Masterson nodded.

“Serious?”

“I wish it might be thought so.”

“Upstage with you, is she?”

“Quite!⁠ ⁠… And you damned well know why!”

“Nonsense! I haven’t seen her for a whole year!”

“Well, it isn’t nonsense⁠ ⁠… not with her. You’re very much on her mind, doc.”

Bobby repudiated the idea with a gesture.

“Fine girl!⁠ ⁠… Wish you luck, Tommy!”

“Thanks! Go bump yourself off, and maybe I’ll have it.”

“By the way, Tommy, do you see something of the young Mrs. Hudson occasionally?”

“Of course⁠ ⁠… Gorgeous⁠ ⁠… Irreproachable and unapproachable!⁠ ⁠… Goes nowhere⁠ ⁠… In mourning, you know⁠ ⁠… Southern old school notions about weeds⁠—and all that⁠ ⁠… She’ll come out of it one of these days and stir up a sensation!⁠ ⁠… Lovely?⁠ ⁠… Gad!⁠ ⁠… Don’t know her, do you? Well, then you’ve never been anywhere and hain’t seen nothin’!”

“Bad as that? I’ll call sometime and give myself a treat.”

“You’d better not⁠ ⁠… You’ve hard work to do, and shouldn’t be distracted.”

The train groaned and ground into the ugliest station between Bombay and the Aurora Borealis, and they parted to hail taxis, promising each other an early meeting.

Cordially welcomed and comfortably established at the Columbia Club, Bobby slipped out of his clothes and into a dressing-gown to resume his work on the Hudson Journal. It was the beginning of a new chapter which took the reader into the author’s confidence more intimately than before, as if, having met the latter halfway by the very act of proceeding with the translation, the legatee of the book was now on new terms of comradeship.

It is important that you should know how serious are the conditions to be met by any man who hopes to increase his own power by way of the technique I pursued under instructions from Randolph.

I must mention them, at this juncture, because it is quite possible these words may be read by some impulsive enthusiast who, eager to avail himself of the large rewards promised, may attempt experiments from which he will receive neither pleasure nor benefit; and, dismayed by failure, find himself worse off in mind than he was before.

Indeed, this was my own experience at first, Randolph having neglected to warn me that certain conditions were imperative to success. I learned them by trial and error.

It must be borne in mind, at the outset, that no amount of altruistic endeavour⁠—no matter how costly⁠—can possibly benefit the donor, if he has in any manner neglected the natural and normal obligations to which he is expected to be sensitive. Not only must he be just before attempting to be generous; he must figure this particular investment of himself as a higher altruism, quite other than mere generosity.

Every conceivable responsibility must have had full attention before one goes in search of opportunity to perform secret services to be used for the express purpose of expanding one’s personality that it may become receptive of that inexplicable energy which guarantees personal power.

My own life had been set in narrow ways. I had had but small chance to injure or defraud, even had I been of a scheming disposition. There had been a minimum of buying and selling in my programme. I had lived mostly under strict supervision⁠—in school, in college and as an intern⁠—with no chance to make many grave or irretrievable blunders.

Once I began to discharge my obligations, however, it was startling to note how considerably I was in the red. For example: I found that there were a good many men, scattered here and there, who had been scratched off my books. Either actually, or to all practical intents, they had been told to go to hell. In some cases, there had been enough provocation to justify my pitching them out of my life, I thought. But, more often than otherwise, they were to be remembered as persons with whom I had sustained some manner of close contact⁠—close enough to make a disruption possible. I discovered that almost without exception the people I had pushed away from me⁠—consigned to hell, if you like⁠—were once intimately associated with me⁠ ⁠… So far as I was concerned they had gone to hell taking along with them a very considerable part of me!

To lose a friend in whom one had invested something of one’s personality was, I discovered, to have lost a certain amount of one’s self.

The successful pursuit of the philosophy now before you demands that you restore whatever of your personality has been dissipated, carted off by other people. If any of its essential energy has been scattered, it must be recovered.

The original proposer of this theory, aware of the importance of insuring against such losses, advised that all misunderstandings should be settled on the spot. When an estrangement takes a friend out of your normal contacts with him, he leaves with part of you in his hand. You must gather up these fragments of yourself, by some hook or crook, so that you have at least all of the personality that rightfully belongs to you, before you attempt its larger projection.

In the next place: you may make the mistake of seeking far and wide for opportunities to build yourself into other personalities through their rehabilitation. A happy circumstance kept me from doing that. Strangely enough, the first really important service I was permitted to do, prefatory to experimenting with this mysterious dynamic, was for the daughter of the man who had shown me the way to it⁠ ⁠… I risked what small repute I had, and put a mortgage on whatever I might hope to acquire by the performance of an operation that saved her life, and, quite incidentally, brought me three pages of comment in the next edition of the Medical Encyclopaedia.

Bobby left his papers as they were, dressed carefully, called a taxi, and proceeded to Gordon’s. He had no one definite answer to give to himself for his sudden decision. If queried, he would have had to say that there came a moment when he felt he was needed at Gordon’s. Certainly he was not going in quest of pleasure.

His arrival at the famous cabaret could not have been better timed. An hour earlier he would have found a noisy, chaffing welcome at a table of silly and excited friends hopeful of seeing him as drunk as themselves; half resentful of his appearance sober.

Because it was a festival night, the cabaret’s bill of amusements was more elaborate than usual.

The girl chorus, obviously much the worse for the holiday hospitality⁠—during intermissions they were accorded many courtesies at the tables of diners⁠—were softly caterwauling the refrain of a popular opera song, while a huge fellow, open-shirted, velvet-trousered, and bandanna-ed in a bandit role, held the spotlight with a solo dance.

Aleppo was the headliner on the bill. Primarily an acrobat and strong man, with fancy dancing and a bit of florid song to supplement his feats of agility and strength, Aleppo’s versatility was acknowledged with tumultuous applause. Smug satisfaction and self-assurance were spelled in every line of his swarthy face as he executed his intricate dance steps.

Bobby waited, just inside the entrance, until the number should be finished. He was too far from the stage to hear Aleppo’s announcement. Some time afterwards, he learned that the cad had called for a volunteer dancing partner from the audience. A tall blonde, in blue chiffon, was unsteadily mounting the steps to the stage. She lurched into the big dancer’s arms, and he swung her into rhythm with him in a fast and furious foxtrot. The girl was Joyce Hudson.

The crowd cheered them lustily. The orchestra took fresh interest. The chorus receded to give them room.

Eager to offer a final thrill to his audience, the huge Aleppo lifted his amateur teammate to his shoulder. No one but an experienced acrobat could have met the situation gracefully. Aleppo continued to spin about the stage with light steps. His burden meant nothing to him. Dizzily drunk, Joyce swayed, clutched at Aleppo’s shaggy head for support, and sank back limply over his shoulder, while he, with big, muscled arms encircling her knees, revolved like a top, quite as if the act had been rehearsed, and he need have no concern about his partner’s safety. Joyce’s hair stood straight from her head and her arms wildly groped as the rapid revolutions of the dancer whirled her through the air.

Bobby could not remember later how he arrived at the stage. There was some ruthless elbowing through the crowd, chairs upset, tables pushed aside, as he made his way. He ran up the steps and confronting the dancer with an outstretched arm commanded him to stop. His face was grim and pale. With an ironical smile, Aleppo eluded the intruder, and Bobby rushed. Pandemonium broke loose among the tables, and the diners jostled about the foot of the stage.

Tom Masterson forced his way through the crowd, climbed the steps, and clutched at Bobby’s sleeve.

“What the hell’s the matter with you?” he screamed. “If Joyce wants to have a bit of fun with this fellow, what business is it of yours?”

The orchestra had stopped now. Aleppo put Joyce down, and she crumpled on the floor. Several girls from the chorus bent over her, and one ran for water.

With a pugilistic swagger, Aleppo strode forward. His beady little eyes flashed dangerously. His pugnacious jaw seemed coming along somewhat in advance of him. His big fists were clenched. Baring his teeth in a crooked grin, he snarled: “Now!⁠—You’re so damned anxious to get into trouble⁠—”

“Look out!” shouted Masterson, “Don’t do that!”

“Sock him!” yelled some youngster from the crowd.

Aleppo advanced belligerently until he was within reach of a surprise.

There were three quick, crunching blows in his face, a right to his left eye, a left to his right eye, and a right to the point of his chin. The big fellow’s knees buckled under him, and he collapsed without a sigh.

It was very quiet at Gordon’s for a moment. Everybody was stunned by the sudden turn of events.

Roughly pushing Masterson aside, Bobby turned to Joyce, stooped and gathered her up in his arms, and started down the steps of the stage, the crowd falling back to make way for him.

“Just a minute!” shouted Masterson, pursuing him. “I’ll take care of her. You needn’t be so officious!”

Bobby turned toward him, and said in a low voice, “You should have taken care of her a little sooner!”

Masterson was in a drunken rage over his humiliation.

“Well⁠—if you think you can get away with that⁠—”

He clutched Bobby’s throat, ripping off his collar; clawed at his hair; his cufflink dug deeply into his friend’s cheek, and the blood flowed freely, dripping from his jaw to his shirt bosom.

Supporting his limp charge with his left arm, Bobby let loose a short-arm jab at the pit of Masterson’s none too able stomach, which demoted him to the ranks of the noncombatants, and, taking Joyce again in his arms, marched forward, pushing chairs and tables out of his way with their bodies.

At the door, the burly head waiter barred his progress.

“Did you bring this young lady here?”

“No! But I am taking her away!”

“Well⁠—not so fast! Let’s look into this!”

Again Bobby lowered Joyce’s feet to the floor, steadied her with his left arm, and growled, “Open that door! I have no intention of mixing it with anybody else here tonight, but if you try to stop me I’ll put you to sleep alongside your little friend up there.”

The bruiser hesitated. Someone shouted, “Let him go, before the joint gets pinched! He’ll see her home! Here⁠—take her coat!”

The crisp blast of cold air swept Joyce back to partial consciousness.

A waiting taxi drove up under the porte-cochère. Bobby lifted her in, told the grinning driver to head east on the boulevard and he’d let him know presently where they wanted to go, and seated himself beside her.

Confusedly she recognized him, looked up dully into his face and mumbled thickly, “Oh, Bobby, you came at last, didn’t you? I’ve waited so long! I’ve wanted you so!”

She nestled her head against his shoulder, and he put his arm around her, spared the necessity of replying, for her revival was brief. In a moment she slumped and slept.

Now he’d got her, what should he do with her? It occurred to him he might take her some place and sober her up before presenting her at home, an idea he instantly rejected. She wouldn’t be even approximately normal for hours. Joyce was drunk, and no mistake!⁠ ⁠… Had he really done her a good turn with his swashbuckling excursion into her affairs? Perhaps it would result in more damaging notoriety for her than had she been left to go her own gait⁠ ⁠… Could he and Tom Masterson ever be friends again?⁠ ⁠… Doubtful.

The driver turned his head for definite instructions, and Bobby gave Joyce’s address. He’d have to take her home. Maybe he could put her into the house without stirring it up. He shook her awake as they neared the corner.

“Joyce! Where is your house-key?”

She began to fumble with her coat, and, acting on the clue, he discovered it in an inside pocket. The taxi drew up at the kerb and the driver obeyed his fare’s order to shut off the engine and wait.

Rousing, as the cold air rushed in through the opened door, Joyce twined her arms about Bobby’s neck and kissed him on the cheek. He was bleeding, but she was too far gone to notice.

It was easier to carry than drag her. The front door was quickly reached, opened and closed quietly. He remembered the appointments of the house. Depositing her on the davenport in the living-room, he drew off her slippers and covered her with a heavy steamer rug. Her face was bloody. That would undoubtedly call for explanations which would drag out the whole story, adding even more discredit to her plight and more chagrin to someone else whose dignity better deserved protection.

Presuming there must be a lavatory on the main floor, he looked about for it, and having made experimental forays into two coat closets, finally discovered the little wash room off the library; dampened a towel, and was on his way back with it when he heard a throaty voice that had never quite left his consciousness. It so completely bridged the weeks that it seemed to take on exactly where it had left off, “Good night, then⁠—and thank you so much!”⁠—“Joyce, you’ve been hurt!”

There was no reply⁠ ⁠… and a moment’s silence. Doubtless she was noticing the light in the library. Perhaps she had observed his coat, tossed across a chair. He decided not to be caught in ambush⁠ ⁠… They met at the door.

She seemed not quite so tall as he had remembered her, possibly because the little red and black slippers had lower heels. The disarray of her bobbed head, her tousled bangs, made her look like a child suddenly roused from sleep, to which juvenile effect her suit of Japanese pyjamas contributed⁠—black with red poppies, buttoned high about her throat. Bobby was aware of the exquisiteness of her ensemble, but all that he saw distinctly was her bewildered blue eyes searching his with mystification.

On sight of him she gasped with surprise; put the back of her hand to her lips as if warding off a blow; stared inquiringly at his blood-smeared cheek.

“Why⁠—it’s you!” she whispered. “Whatever are you doing here?”

“I brought Joyce home⁠ ⁠… I’m sorry I startled you⁠ ⁠… I’d rather hoped we might not have to disturb you.”

“But I thought she was going away with Mr. Masterson. Was he hurt? You’ve been, I see! Was there an accident?”

“Something like that⁠ ⁠… Nothing serious at all⁠ ⁠… And Joyce isn’t hurt. She’s just⁠—just pretty tired and sleepy.”

“Her face is bloody⁠ ⁠… You were going to do something about it, I notice.”

He handed her the towel.

“You’ll find she’s not hurt. That blood she rubbed off me when I brought her in. I thought I would wash it off so you wouldn’t be alarmed when you saw her.”

For a long moment they stood gazing, appraisingly, into each other’s eyes⁠—hers wide with curiosity, hurt with disappointment, but half-sympathetic; his, eloquent with appeal for suspended judgment; both of them at a loss for words to meet their predicament; unable to release themselves from this speechless recognition of their brief comradeship’s claims.

“So⁠—you knew you were coming to my house, then⁠ ⁠… Perhaps you’ll tell me who you are⁠ ⁠… You didn’t say⁠—that other time.”

Into Helen’s eyes, and, an instant afterwards, upon her lips, there came the suggestion of a smile. Bobby hesitated: then blurted out, “Merrick.”

“So you’re Bobby Merrick!” Her eyes narrowed. She dug her little fists into her ribs with a defiance that would have seemed deliciously absurd had the occasion been less serious; for she had not been naturally cast for tragic roles and her costume was everything but militant. “You hadn’t brought us enough trouble, had you? What we’d been through wasn’t quite sufficient! You must add a little humiliation to it! You’ve brought Joyce home to me drunk! You look as if you had been drinking, too!⁠ ⁠… Fighting, weren’t you?⁠ ⁠… If you could only see yourself!⁠ ⁠… Oh!”

“Yes⁠—I know. I’m not very pretty to look at⁠—and the evidence isn’t good. Joyce will tell you all about in the morning⁠ ⁠… Meant it all right⁠ ⁠… Sorry.”

“You’d better go now.”

He caught up his topcoat.

“It’s too bad!” he muttered, half to himself, as he passed her.

As if he were already out of the house, Helen sank down on the davenport at Joyce’s feet, put both her hands over her face and cried like a little child threatened with punishment. It was a devastating scheme. She seemed so pitiably alone, so desperately in need of a friendly word.

With arrested step, Bobby regarded her with a deeper compassion than he had ever experienced, swept again with that strange sense of their belonging. He turned and took a hesitating step toward her. Suddenly aware of him and divining his thought, she slowly shook her head.

“No⁠ ⁠… There’s nothing you can do for us⁠ ⁠… but go!”

His voice was torn with pity.

“I can’t leave you this way⁠ ⁠… Am I to remember you⁠—always⁠—sitting in a crumpled little heap⁠—crying because I had hurt you?” He bent over her with extended hand. “Say good night to me, won’t you?”

Her eyes travelled up to his face.

“You’re still bleeding,” she said dully. “Better do something⁠ ⁠… Go in there and wash it off.”

Tossing aside his coat, Bobby returned to the little lavatory, disinterestedly mopped at his stains and flung down the towel, bitterly⁠ ⁠… She was waiting in the open doorway when he turned; leaning limply back against the doorpost, face upturned, eyes closed, with a roll of surgical bandage, adhesive tape, and scissors in her hands.

“You’re mighty thoughtful.” He reached for the dressings.

“Not at all,” she said evenly, ignoring his gesture. “I’d do as much for a hurt dog⁠ ⁠… I was too upset to notice that you really needed attention⁠ ⁠… Come over here to the light. I’ll try to fix you.”

He followed her to the table. With deft fingers she shaped a gauze pad, sheared off some strips of tape, and gave her attention to his torn cheek with all the impersonal interest of a veteran nurse in a charity clinic⁠ ⁠… The sleeves of her jacket slipped back as she reached up⁠ ⁠… The touch of her hands on his face, the warm nearness of her, the little tremulous catch in her throat when she breathed, set his heart racing furiously.

“There!” she said at length, lifting the longest lashes he had ever seen, and looking inquiringly into his eyes, “Does that feel better?”

Hours afterward, when her tempest of indignation had subsided through sheer fatigue, her self-reproaches began to eclipse the scorn she felt for him.

Exquisitely tortured, she had lived it over and over again, each second of it⁠—for it had all happened swiftly⁠—as one who follows the minutia of motion on a slow film.

Perhaps, had she turned away at once, he might have stammered his appreciation and left⁠ ⁠… How indiscreet of her to have looked up, at close range, to inquire, with honest solicitude, “Does that feel better?”

It felt so much better, apparently, that he must express his thanks by taking her hand, as it was withdrawn from his face, lifting it quickly to his lips. She jerked it away from him angrily⁠ ⁠… Later, as she thought it over in her chaos of angry shame, she reflected it would have been better had she submitted dignifiedly to his impulsive gesture of gratitude⁠ ⁠… and signed him to be off.

He stood humiliated, abased, as if she had struck him a blow. Then, huskily, measuring his words, he said, “I wonder if you would have done that to a hurt dog, grateful for a little unexpected kindness.”

What a slyly mean advantage to have taken of her sympathy⁠—of her instinctive courtesy!

“That was awfully rude of me⁠ ⁠… I’ve been through a lot, tonight⁠ ⁠… I’m not quite myself⁠ ⁠… Please go⁠—now.”

She should have commanded; not entreated.

“I know you have been cruelly troubled⁠ ⁠… and it nearly breaks my heart!” he had said.

As she milled it over, with her flushed face buried deep in her pillow, she tried to explain how it all happened. For an instant, when he had put his arms gently about her, she forgot that he was Bobby Merrick. Bobby Merrick was just some mythical person she didn’t want to know. She remembered only that this was the quiet, pensive, lovable chap who had led her like a little child along a dark country lane⁠ ⁠… And she was so desolately lonely and in need of tenderness.

He softly touched her wet eyes with his handkerchief⁠ ⁠… How could she have stood there, calmly submitting to his impudent attentions?⁠ ⁠… What had she been thinking of to allow herself to be placed in such an impossible predicament? What a beast he had been to make capital of her yearning for a bit of human kindness⁠ ⁠… at a moment when, he knew, her whole world was breaking up under her feet!⁠ ⁠… Well, he surely was made aware, before he left, what she thought of his despicable treatment of her!⁠ ⁠… Hadn’t she told him, so bitterly, so scathingly, that he had cringed under it?⁠ ⁠… But⁠—that was small balm for her injured pride⁠ ⁠… She had actually stood with her forehead pressed against his arm, while his slim fingers caressed her hair, utterly unable to exert her will⁠ ⁠… dreamily visioning a thin trickle of fine sand pouring into a small red-brown heap at the bottom of an hourglass⁠ ⁠… and wondering how to shut it off⁠ ⁠… Why⁠—she must have been hypnotized!

“Won’t you forgive me⁠—now?” he whispered.

Why couldn’t she have freed herself, smiled; agreed⁠—in a matter-of-fact tone, “I’ll not hold anything against you. Good night.”⁠ ⁠… She repeated into her pillow several variants of that commonplace, devoutly wishing she could remember having said it; trying to persuade herself she really had.

But he had pleaded so wistfully!⁠ ⁠… She had lifted her eyes, and her lips were parted to speak a single word of friendly assurance when⁠—it happened⁠ ⁠… And she had offered no resistance!⁠ ⁠… Oh⁠—how cheap he must think her! How little respect he had had for her⁠—widowed because of him⁠—and, worst of all, he would probably be cad enough to imagine that she had responded to his kiss⁠ ⁠… It was the haunting fear he might think she had shared it that tortured her most.

Of course⁠—she had done what she could, quickly, savagely, to reinstate herself in his regard. Breaking free, she had pushed him from her; forbade him ever to speak to her again; left the room in a grand state of emotional tumult without so much as pausing to glance at the stupefied Joyce, heavily sleeping through a scene that could not have failed to interest her, had she been aware of it.

Seated before her mirror at nine, gazing remorsefully at her haggard reflection, she straightened, stiffly, and said aloud, “Well, whatever he may care to think, I’m certain I didn’t.”

Sleepy servants at the Columbia Club grinned and exchanged winks when Bobby arrived at a quarter to four, sullen and dishevelled.

“Teddy,” he growled to the elevator boy, “bring me a bottle of Scotch and a syphon of soda.”

He disrobed, mixed a stiff drink, and another, and a third, in swift succession, scowled hatefully at himself in the bathroom mirror and muttered “Piker!”⁠ ⁠… He had forfeited the thing he most wanted⁠—the only thing he wanted in this world!⁠ ⁠… Now she would never consent to see him again⁠ ⁠… She had said it, and she meant it. He had imposed upon her kindness; had stampeded her into an impetuous response to his sympathy which she would regret with self-loathing⁠ ⁠… What was the good of anything⁠—now?

The Hudson journal lay on the desk where he had left it; a sheaf of club stationery beside it, scrawled with rows of letters.

He gave the book a contemptuous push with the back of his hand and it fell into the wastebasket.

“Damned silly nonsense!” he muttered. “To hell with all that kind of blah!”