“Vag these two hypos,” said the cop to the desk man. He searched them most carefully, finding a small package in the torn lining of one’s coat. The boy begged for it piteously. “I’ll croak, officer, if you take it away from me.” The cop gave him to the waiting trusty. “Throw him in.” He was put in with us. Nothing was found on the other hypo, and he was thrown in too.

They immediately began comparing notes and taking stock, walking up and down the center of the cell nervously. They were in rags and unwashed, their shoes were broken and had no laces, and the tops flapped open showing their bare ankles. They seemed utterly unconscious of their sad condition and walked and talked as briskly as two brokers on Montgomery Street discussing the markets.

“He got my plant, Georgie,” said the first one, “but you saved yours, didn’t you, Georgie? Gee, Georgie, but you’re a fox.” His tones were honey.

“Never mind that,” the other replied; “you don’t have to ‘Georgie’ me. You’re in with what ‘gow’ I’ve got. Let’s bang it up before they come in and take it away from us. See if you can hustle some matches.”