“I’ll make the cribs myself. I’m dynamite with them old brums in the cribs,” he declared, with a satisfied, confident air.

The “brass” was portioned out and they started uptown to “tell the natives how it happened.” There is no more industrious person than a half-drunk brass peddler out on the street making a plunge for enough coin to buy himself another micky of alcohol. The first peddler returned in an hour with his quota of “ Dr. Hall” (alcohol), and the drinking began afresh. George, Johnnie, and I had enough; we drank sparingly. One by one they straggled in with their bottles till all had arrived but Gold Tooth.

There was much speculation as to what had happened to him, and his tribe finally decided he had been yaffled by the town whittler. In the language of the bums “yaffled” is arrested, and the “town whittler” is the constable, so-called because he is usually found sitting in some comfortable place whittling a stick.