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funny. It was red.

4
    “Y OU BEEN TO BILOXI’S lately?”
    “To hell with Biloxi. Her place stinks, her beer stinks, and she stinks. She’s got no girls is her trouble. I’m sticking with the Twins. They take your money, but you get something for it. They’ve got the girls and they’ve got the sports, specially the big ones. What Biloxi’s got is nothing.”
    “Maybe she’s put in improvements.”
    “What kind of improvements?”
    “That niece that got in this week.”
    “Any good?”
    “You couldn’t prove it by me. Biloxi’s not dating her for anything I can afford. But there she is, just the same. And there’s the stuff she brought with her, from San Francisco, Sacramento, and everywhere.
    I’m telling you, Biloxi’s getting ready to give the Twins some competition.”
    “What do you mean, stuff?”
    “Mirrors, for one thing. Over every bed.”
    “What?”
    “These women know something. They’re from New Orleans.”
    It was a Saturday, in the International Bar, and I don’t know how long I’d been sitting around there, but it must have been two or three days. I wanted to hit them both, but I was too sick to my stomach. I’d been hearing stuff like that everywhere, and I’d found out something I hadn’t known before: a new girl in a house, it’s all over town like a prairie fire, the biggest news of the week. But I couldn’t have hit anybody for spreading it, because I’d have been ashamed to have them find out I even cared.
    That night came the news of Chancellorsville, and from the glum way everybody took it I knew it was even better than it said in the paper. I tramped around, taking drinks, trying to feel good about it, but the liquor didn’t take any effect, and after a while I knew where I was going. But when I turned into D Street I ran into something I’d never even heard of, all my life. It was what they call the Parade, about five thousand miners, cowmen, mule-skinners, mine-owners, sports, army officers, gamblers, bushwhackers, and just plain hombres with nothing to do, all shoving up one side of the street and down the other, beating on doors of houses, trying to get in. Most places had a little window, shaped like a diamond, in the front door, with a lace curtain over it, and now and then the curtain would be pulled to one side, and one, two, three, four, or five fingers would be held up, but mostly one finger, and then the riot would start. First, whoever was going had to be got out, and that took a minute of pushing and yelling and cussing. Then whoever was coming had to be got in, and that was worse, because everybody voted for theirself, so there was quite some difference of opinion. Then, finally, the door had to be shut, and that was worst of all, because arms and elbows and knees and feet were in the way, and then generally there were whiskers in the crack even after they got the key turned.
    The number I wanted was 17, and when I got to it I beat on the door, but nothing happened. Then a little fellow in a Panama hat stepped up beside me and rapped with his stick, like it was a signal, but there was a terrific row going on inside, or an argument or something, and he didn’t get any action either. So he turned to me and said: “You want in?”
    “No, I’m just onry.”
    “Has to be this house? No other won’t do?”
    “I got a reason.”
    “There’s eight or ten reasons in there, some of them pretty nice. I got one too, and if she knew I was outside I’d be inside pretty quick, but I’m just back from out of town and she’s not any mind reader and there’s too much noise going on in there for her to hear me knock. But there’s one way. That is, if you’re tall enough and you don’t mind a ride.”
    “I’m six feet three.”
    “Then let’s go.”
    We went to Union and turned uphill, and when we came to a hoisting works he unlocked the door and rolled it back. “Hold on, my young friend. Are you sure you know what you’re doing, getting into that