While we were having our lunch the talk was diplomatically turned to dope and the shortage that menaced my two hypo friends and the sufferings they would undergo when there was no more and the habit came on, and the necessity for a shot in the morning as a bracer for them when they faced the judge. They grew so despondent over their plight that when we were done eating they decided to shoot up the small portion of white stuff they had left. They brightened up after this operation was over, and things looked rosier.

“Just think, Georgie,” said the talkative one, looking at me, “what a four-bit piece would do for us. What a lifesaver! We’ll both get a sixer in the morning if we go in front of the judge with our teeth rattlin’ so we can’t put up a talk. If I had a decent shot for the morning I could talk him out of it.

“And that rat, Finnerty, the trusty,” the talker spoke to me now, “has got a ton of it out there to sell, but he wouldn’t give us a jolt if we had the horrors.”

“Can you buy it from Finnerty?” I asked him, interested.