lappin’ up this shtuff—hittin’ the pipe—when I could be shomebody. Arc—architec’, y’ un’ershtand—good one, too. But I got in rut—got mixsh up with theshe people. C-can’t sheem to break ’way. Goin’ to, though—no spoofin’. Goin’ back to li’l wife, nicesh woman in the worl’. Don’t you shay anything t’ Kewpie. She’d raishe hell ’f she knew I wash goin’ t’ shake her. Nishe girl, K-kewpie, but tough. S-shtick a bloomin’ knife in me. Good job, too! But I’m goin’ back to wife. Breakin’ ’way from p-pipe an’ ever’thing. Look at me. D’ I look like a hophead? Course not! Curin’ m’self, tha’s why. I’ll show you—take a smoke now—show you I can take it or leave it alone.”
Pulling himself dizzily up out of his chair, he wandered into the next room, bawling a song at the top of his voice:
“A dimber mort with a quarter-stone slum, A-bubbin’ of max with her cove— A bingo fen in a crack-o’-dawn drum, A-waitin’ for—”
He came staggering into the room again carrying an elaborate opium layout—all silver and ebony—on a silver tray. He put it on the table and flourished a pipe at me.
“Have a li’l rear on me, Parker.”
I told him I’d stick to the Scotch.
“Give y’ shot of C. ’f y’d rather have it,” he invited me.
I declined the cocaine, so he sprawled himself comfortably on the floor beside the table, rolled and cooked a pill, and our party went on—with him smoking his hop and me punishing the liquor—each of us still talking for the other’s benefit, and trying to get the other to talk for our own.
I was holding down a lovely package by the time Kewpie came in, at midnight.