Page:The plastic age, (IA plasticage00mark).pdf/277

Rh rhythmic wailing of the fiddles, syncopated passion screaming with lust, the drums, horribly primitive; drunken embraces. . . . “Oh, those Wabash Blues —I know I got my dues— A lone-some soul am I—I feel that I could die. . Blues, sob¬ bing, despairing blues. . . Orgiastic musicbeautiful, hideous! “Can-dle light that gleams— Haunts me in my dreams. . .” The drums boom, boom, boom, booming— “I ’ll pack my walking shoes, to lose—those Wa-bash Blues. .

Hour after hour—on and on. Flushed faces, breaths hot with passion and whisky. . . Pretty girls, cool and sober, dancing with men who held ! them with drunken lasciviousness; sober men hating ! the whisky breaths of the girls. . . On and on, the drunken carnival to maddening music the passion,
 * the lust.

Both Hugh and Cynthia were drinking, and by midnight both of them were drunk, too drunk any ! longer to think clearly. As they danced, Hugh was aware of nothing but Cynthia’s body, her firm young body close to his. His blood beat with the pounding of the drums. He held her tighter and tighter—the gymnasium, the other couples, a sway¬ ing mist before his eyes. When the dance ended, . Cynthia whispered huskily, “Ta-take me somewhere, Hugh.”

Strangely enough, he got the significance of her