“We might as well provide ourselves with rubbers while we are at it,” remarked Crapsey, as his gaze fell upon a number of such footwear resting near the rack, and thereupon each donned a pair of rubbers that fitted him.
Thus equipped they had stolen out of the hotel through a side hallway without any one in the building being aware of their departure.
“We’re going to have a fight of it to get to 134 the railroad station,” muttered Ward Porton, as the fury of the storm struck both of them.
“It’s lucky I know the way,” croaked Tim Crapsey. And then, as they passed over the porch in the light of the lantern by which Washington Bones had seen Porton, the man went on: “Say, what’s the matter with us stoppin’ at some drinkin’ place and gittin’ a little liquor?”
“Not now,” interposed his companion, hastily. “We want to make our get-away without being seen if we possibly can.”
“Oh, nobody will know us,” grumbled Crapsey, who had a great fondness for liquor, “and the stuff may prove a life-saver if we git stuck some place in the snow.”
The realization that they might become snowbound on the way to Pepsico made Porton pause, and in the end he agreed to visit a drinking place several blocks away, which, by the light shining dimly through the window, they could see was still open.
“But now look here, Tim, you’re not going to overdo it,” said the former moving-picture actor, warningly. “If we are going to pull this stunt off you are going to keep perfectly sober. It’s one drink and no more!”
“But I’m goin’ to git a flask to take along,” pleaded the man.
“You can do that. But I give you fair warning 135 that you’ve got to go slow in using the stuff. Otherwise we are going to part company. In such a game as we are trying to put over, a man has got to have his wits about him.”