They fell into a fresh argument and their words became so personal and threatening that I feared they would do each other some great violence. I took a chance in the role of peacemaker and suggested that they take another shot and talk it over peaceably and quietly. They quit their wrangling instantly and in a minute they were on their knees in the corner of the cell with their heads together, amicably preparing another shot. Somewhere down the corridor I heard a clatter, and a singsong voice droned, “Get ready for the broom. Get ready for the broom.”

I was going out. I went over to my friends in the corner with the fifty-cent piece I had left. “Here,” I said, “take this.” One of them, still on his knees waiting for his shot, held out his hand; his fingers closed on the half dollar. He neither looked up nor spoke to me⁠—his eyes were on the little tin can where the morphine was dissolving in the boiling water.

The door was opened and my name called.