“Franky, pal, I couldn’t do it. It’s a low trick, but not on a night like this. No, sir, I couldn’t do it.”
“Break it up,” Franklin pleaded, scooping sweat out of his neckband. “I want to freeze myself to death in a big refrigerator.”
Phillips raised himself slowly. A look of faint animation came over his thin face. Drunkenly, he patted Franklin on his back. “You’ve got somethin’ there,” he said. “Gee! The guy’s got brains. I’ve been doin’ you dirt. Boy, you’ve certainly got somethin’ there!”
Franklin pushed him away. “Sit down,” he said crossly; “you’re tight.”
Phillips shook his head solemnly. “Come on, bud, you’ve given me an idea.”
“I ain’t moving. I’m staying right here.”
Phillips grabbed his arm and hauled him out of the chair. “I’m goin’ to save your life,” he said. “We’ll take a cab an’ spend the night in the morgue.”
Franklin gaped at him. “Wait a minute,” he said. “I ain’t goin’ to sleep with a lotta stiffs. You’re crazy.”
“Aw, come on. What the hell? Stiffs ain’t goin’ to worry you. Think how cold it’ll be.”
Franklin wavered. “Yeah,” he said, clinging to the table, “but I don’t like it. Think you can get in?”