1
BILL LENNOX was getting drunk. He had been working at it with steady purpose for almost an hour, and he was pleased to notice that the back-bar no longer made a sharp line against the yellow dirtiness of the wall.
Here, then, was proof that he was making progress, and that the quart of Scotch which he had already consumed had not been drunk in vain.
The excursion into the realm of alcoholic bliss was Lennox's way of illustrating a point. It was, he thought, as he watched the bartender open a second quart and pour a generous portion into the glass, what you could expect when a man stuck his neck out to help a friend.
Had he been one who became tearful while in his cups, he might have sobbed at this point, but he was not given to tears. He was angry, angry at himself for ever having embarked on such a life and for ever having let personal friendship sway him in his course.
He had never dreamed that at thirty, he would be an executive in one of the world's largest picture studios. He had not gone to college with that in mind. Nor had he worked three years on a Chicago newspaper in preparation for a producer's existence.
