Just finished up pint. Got to have one-die of
thirst. Bourbon. Get--"
"I'll go and get you a drink, Charley--just one drink,
savvy?--if you'll promise to get cleaned up, like I tell
you, afterward."
"_All_ ri'."
Mr. Wrenn hastened out with a whisky-flask, muttering,
feverishly, "Gee! I got to save him." Returning, he poured out
one drink, as though it were medicine for a refractory patient,
and said, soothingly:
"Now we'll take a cold bath, heh? and get cleaned up and
sobered up. Then we'll talk about a job, heh?"
"Aw, don't want a bath. Say, I feel better now. Let's go out
and have a drink. Gimme that flask. Where j' yuh put it?"
Mr. Wrenn went to the bathroom, turned on the cold-water tap,
returned, and undressed Charley, who struggled and laughed and
let his whole inert weight rest against Mr. Wrenn's shoulder.
Though normally Charley could have beaten three Mr. Wrenns, he
was run into the bath-room and poked into the tub.
Instantly he began to splash, throwing up water in handfuls,
singing.
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