“No, Jim, no,” he said; “not for all the world. It’s impossible; I can’t think of it. You can understand my position—I just can’t do it, that’s all. We’ve got to find some other way.”
“Well,” said Rankin, flinging up his hands as if he were flinging up the problem, “all right; you find the other way. I’ve been here rackin’ what few brains I’ve got fer a week, an’ I can’t think of any other way. God knows I’ve spent all I’ve got as it is.” He settled back in his chair and plunged his hands deep in his empty pockets.
“Yes, I know, Jim, and I appreciate it—but—I’ll tell you.”
Garwood sat and thought intently an instant, knitting his strong brows.
“No, I won’t tell you either, but I think I can raise it—I’ll see you to-morrow morning. I think I know of a place.”
“All right, Jerry,” said Rankin, getting up; “I don’t care where you get it—jus’ so’s you get it. I only want to see you landed high an’ dry out of the wet, my boy, that’s all.” And he hit Garwood on the shoulder.
“Here, let me hold it fer you,” he said a minute later, when Garwood had picked up his overcoat, heavy with its soaking in the rain.
Down in Chris Steisfloss’s saloon as they stood at the bar, and just as Garwood was ordering a drink, Rankin pushed him aside and said:
“No, you wait. Now Chris,” he went on, addressing the stolid man in the white apron, “you take a whisky glass an’ fill it with beer, mostly foam—same as all your beers—an’ then put a spoonful o’ that quinine on the foam.”
The man did as Rankin bade him, and when the white powder was floating on the sparkling foam, Rankin gave it to Garwood and said: