Chapter: In a partitioned-off section of a saloon sat a man with a half dozen
women, gleefully laughing, hovering about him.  The man had arrived at
that stage of drunkenness where affection is felt for the universe.

"I'm good f'ler, girls," he said, convincingly.  "I'm damn good f'ler.
An'body treats me right, I allus trea's zem right!  See?"

The women nodded their heads approvingly.  "To be sure," they cried out
in hearty chorus.  "You're the kind of a man we like, Pete.  You're
outa sight!  What yeh goin' to buy this time, dear?"

"An't'ing yehs wants, damn it," said the man in an abandonment of good
will.  His countenance shone with the true spirit of benevolence.  He
was in the proper mode of missionaries.  He would have fraternized with
obscure Hottentots.  And above all, he was overwhelmed in tenderness
for his friends, who were all illustrious.

"An't'ing yehs wants, damn it," repeated he, waving his hands with
beneficent recklessness.  "I'm good f'ler, girls, an' if an'body treats
me right I--here," called he through an open door to a waiter, "bring
girls drinks, damn it.  What 'ill yehs have, girls?  An't'ing yehs
wants, damn it!"

The waiter glanced in with the disgusted look of the man who serves
intoxicants for the man who takes too much of them.  He nodded his head
shortly at the order from each individual, and went.

"Damn it," said the man, "we're havin' heluva time.  I like you girls!
Damn'd if I don't!  Yer right sort!  See?"

He spoke at length and with feeling, concerning the excellencies of his
assembled friends.

"Don' try pull man's leg, but have a heluva time!  Das right!  Das way
teh do!  Now, if I sawght yehs tryin' work me fer drinks, wouldn' buy
damn t'ing!  But yer right sort, damn it!  Yehs know how ter treat a
f'ler, an' I stays by yehs 'til spen' las' cent!  Das right!  I'm good
f'ler an' I knows when an'body treats me right!"

Between the times of the arrival and departure of the waiter, the man
discoursed to the women on the tender regard he felt for all living
things.  He laid stress upon the purity of his motives in all dealings
with men in the world and spoke of the fervor of his friendship for
those who were amiable.  Tears welled slowly from his eyes.  His voice
quavered when he spoke to them.

Once when the waiter was about to depart with an empty tray, the man
drew a coin from his pocket and held it forth.

"Here," said he, quite magnificently, "here's quar'."

The waiter kept his hands on his tray.

"I don' want yer money," he said.

The other put forth the coin with tearful insistence.

"Here, damn it," cried he, "tak't!  Yer damn goo' f'ler an' I wan' yehs
tak't!"

"Come, come, now," said the waiter, with the sullen air of a man who is
forced into giving advice.  "Put yer mon in yer pocket!  Yer loaded an'
yehs on'y makes a damn fool of yerself."

As the latter passed out of the door the man turned pathetically to the
women.

"He don' know I'm damn goo' f'ler," cried he, dismally.

"Never you mind, Pete, dear," said a woman of brilliance and audacity,
laying her hand with great affection upon his arm.  "Never you mind,
old boy!  We'll stay by you, dear!"

"Das ri'," cried the man, his face lighting up at the soothing tones of
the woman's voice.  "Das ri', I'm damn goo' f'ler an' w'en anyone
trea's me ri', I treats zem ri'!  Shee!"

"Sure!" cried the women.  "And we're not goin' back on you, old man."

The man turned appealing eyes to the woman of brilliance and audacity.
He felt that if he could be convicted of a contemptible action he would
die.

"Shay, Nell, damn it, I allus trea's yehs shquare, didn' I?  I allus
been goo' f'ler wi' yehs, ain't I, Nell?"

"Sure you have, Pete," assented the woman.  She delivered an oration to
her companions.  "Yessir, that's a fact.  Pete's a square fellah, he
is.  He never goes back on a friend.  He's the right kind an' we stay
by him, don't we, girls?"

"Sure," they exclaimed.  Looking lovingly at him they raised their
glasses and drank his health.

"Girlsh," said the man, beseechingly, "I allus trea's yehs ri', didn'
I?  I'm goo' f'ler, ain' I, girlsh?"

"Sure," again they chorused.

"Well," said he finally, "le's have nozzer drink, zen."

"That's right," hailed a woman, "that's right.  Yer no bloomin' jay!
Yer spends yer money like a man.  Dat's right."

The man pounded the table with his quivering fists.

"Yessir," he cried, with deep earnestness, as if someone disputed him.
"I'm damn goo' f'ler, an' w'en anyone trea's me ri', I allus
trea's--le's have nozzer drink."

He began to beat the wood with his glass.

"Shay," howled he, growing suddenly impatient.  As the waiter did not
then come, the man swelled with wrath.

"Shay," howled he again.

The waiter appeared at the door.

"Bringsh drinksh," said the man.

The waiter disappeared with the orders.

"Zat f'ler damn fool," cried the man.  "He insul' me!  I'm ge'man!
Can' stan' be insul'!  I'm goin' lickim when comes!"

"No, no," cried the women, crowding about and trying to subdue him.
"He's all right!  He didn't mean anything!  Let it go!  He's a good
fellah!"

"Din' he insul' me?" asked the man earnestly.

"No," said they.  "Of course he didn't!  He's all right!"

"Sure he didn' insul' me?" demanded the man, with deep anxiety in his
voice.

"No, no!  We know him!  He's a good fellah.  He didn't mean anything."

"Well, zen," said the man, resolutely, "I'm go' 'pol'gize!"

When the waiter came, the man struggled to the middle of the floor.

"Girlsh shed you insul' me!  I shay damn lie!  I 'pol'gize!"

"All right," said the waiter.

The man sat down.  He felt a sleepy but strong desire to straighten
things out and have a perfect understanding with everybody.

"Nell, I allus trea's yeh shquare, din' I?  Yeh likes me, don' yehs,
Nell?  I'm goo' f'ler?"

"Sure," said the woman of brilliance and audacity.

"Yeh knows I'm stuck on yehs, don' yehs, Nell?"

"Sure," she repeated, carelessly.

Overwhelmed by a spasm of drunken adoration, he drew two or three bills
from his pocket, and, with the trembling fingers of an offering priest,
laid them on the table before the woman.

"Yehs knows, damn it, yehs kin have all got, 'cause I'm stuck on yehs,
Nell, damn't, I--I'm stuck on yehs, Nell--buy drinksh--damn't--we're
havin' heluva time--w'en anyone trea's me ri'--I--damn't, Nell--we're
havin' heluva--time."

Shortly he went to sleep with his swollen face fallen forward on his
chest.

The women drank and laughed, not heeding the slumbering man in the
corner.  Finally he lurched forward and fell groaning to the floor.

The women screamed in disgust and drew back their skirts.

"Come ahn," cried one, starting up angrily, "let's get out of here."

The woman of brilliance and audacity stayed behind, taking up the bills
and stuffing them into a deep, irregularly-shaped pocket.  A guttural
snore from the recumbent man caused her to turn and look down at him.

She laughed.  "What a damn fool," she said, and went.

The smoke from the lamps settled heavily down in the little
compartment, obscuring the way out.  The smell of oil, stifling in its
intensity, pervaded the air.  The wine from an overturned glass dripped
softly down upon the blotches on the man's neck.

 There's Pete--in a saloon, no less, but now he's a customer. He is a fine mess, drunk and buying drinks for a group of female hangers-on who are clearly using him. The waiter is disgusted by the drunken scene, which is saying something, since he's seen it all. Nellie--she of "brilliance and audacity" fame--is there. Pete tells her over and over that he's "stuck on" her, but she leaves him to his pathetic stupor. Not before she takes his last dollars, though. Pete has sunk low in his own low-sinking way. The scene ends with Pete passed out on the floor, red wine dripping from the table down onto his neck.

