“Thanks. But you—you’re a tee-totaler?” said Jeff.
“A—well—not exactly,” stammered Aughinbaugh. “But I have to be very careful. I—I only take one drink at a time!” He fumbled out another glass.
“I stumble, I stumble!” said Bransford gravely. He poured out a small drink and passed the bottle. “‘I fill this cup to one made up!’”—He held the glass up to the light.
“Well?” said Aughinbaugh, expectantly. “Go on!”
“That description can’t be bettered,” said Bransford.
“Never will I drink such a toast as that,” cried Aughinbaugh, laughing. “Let me substitute, Here’s to our better acquaintance!”
Chapter II
“Life is just one damn thing after another.”
—A Nameless Philosopher.
AUGHINBAUGH closed the door behind him and paused, vastly diverted. His entrance had passed unnoted, muffled by the jerky click-click of the typewriter on which Jeff Bransford toiled with painful absorption. On Jeff’s forehead little beads of sweat stood out, glistening in the lamp-light. He scanned the last line, scowled ferociously, and snapped the platen back. His uncertain fingers twitched solicitously above the keys. Aughinbaugh chuckled offensively.