THE MAN IN THE BROOKS SHIRT
331
"You're not in love with him," he said. "You couldn't have done
what you did last night if you were." As the memory of lovemaking
returned to him, his voice grew embarrassingly hoarse.
"I was tight," she said flatly in a low voice.
"A girl like you doesn't let a man have her just because she's drunk."
She bowed her head. There was no possible answer she could give.
"I must go," she repeated. In a way she knew that she would have to stay,
and knew, too, that it was only a matter of hours, but, just as a convict
whose sentence is nearly up will try a jail break and get shot down by
the guards, so the girl, with Sacramento not far ahead, could not restrain
herself from begging, like a claustrophobic, for immediate release. She
saw that the man was getting hurt and angry, but still she held herself
stiffly in his embrace and would not look at him. He turned her head
round with his hand. "Kiss me," he said, but she pulled away.
"I have to throw up."
He pointed to the toilet seat, which was covered with green upholstery.
(She had forgotten that Pullman compartments had this indecent fea–
ture.) She raised the cover and vomited, while the man sat on the bed
and watched her. This was the nadir, she thought bitterly; surely nothing
worse than this could ever happen to her. She wiped the tears from her
eyes and leaned against the wall. The man made a gesture toward her.
"Don't touch me," she said, "or I'll be sick again.
It
would be better
if I went back to my berth."
"Poor little girl,'' he said tenderly. "You feel bad, don't you?"
He got out of the berth and took a fresh bottle of whiskey from
a suitcase.
"I'll have to save the Bourbon for the conductor,'' he said in a matter–
of-fact, friendly voice. "He'll be around later on, looking for his cut."
For the first time that morning the girl laughed. The man poured
out two small drinks and handed her one of them. "Take it like medicine,"
he advised.
She sat down on the berth and crossed her legs. The man put on a
dressing-gown and pulled up a chair opposite her. They raised their
glasses. The smell of the whiskey gagged her and she knew that it was out
of the question, physically, for her to get drunk a second time. Yet she
felt her spirits lift a little. There was an air of professional rowdyism
about their drinking neat whiskey early in the morning in a dishevelled
compartment that took her fancy.
"What about the porter?"
"Oh," said the man genially. "I've squared him. I gave him ten last
night .and I'll give him another ten when I get off. ·He thinks you're
wonderful. He said to me, 'Mr. Breen, you sure done better than most.'"
"Oh!" said the girl, covering her face with her hands. "Oh! Oh!"
For a moment she felt that she could not bear it, but as she heard the man
laugh she made her own discomfiture comic and gave an extra groan or
two that were purely theatrical. She raised her head and looked at him
