"You've done fine," he wheezed. "A little late getting started, but that's to be expected. Every-thing's fine—just fine!"
Praise seemed a miscue. Bozzy didn't quite know how to answer.
"Sir," he asked, mopping his forehead, "what about Mr. Kojac?"
"Oh, he's all right," Mr. Frewne said. "Those fumes are fast. We can leave the rest to the undertaker."
He slapped Bozzy on the back and pushed him down the corridor. "Come on into my office, boy. I'll pour you a drink—pour us each one, as a matter of fact. And hand over your iron jewelry, son. You won't need that stuff again for thirty-five years."
—DAVE DRYFOOS