John sipped beer. His eyes brightened, and he began to talk more rapidly.
The reporter frowned, stopped writing, and studied John curiously.
John finished his first beer, started on his second. His eyes were wild, and he was talking more and more rapidly.
"He's doing it," Hammer-Head groaned. "He's telling him!"
I rose swiftly. "We better get over there. We should have known better—"
We were too late. The reporter had already slapped on his hat and was striding to the exit. John turned to us, dazed, his enthusiasm vanishing like air from a punctured balloon.
"He wouldn't listen," he said, weakly. "I tried to tell him, but he said he'd come back when I'm sober. I'm sober now. So I quit. I've got to find my hole."
I patted him on the back. "No, John, we'll help you. Don't quit. We'll—well, we'll help you."
"We're working on a plan, too," said Fat Boy in a burst of inspiration. "We're going to make a more scientific approach."
"How?" John asked.