“No” declared Jerry, with a shade of emphasis.
“Been fired from your job then, I s’pose,” pursued he of the helmet, in the accent of one acquainted with disasters more calamitous than those of the heart.
“Not that I’ve heard of,” rejoined Jerry.
The policeman took off his helmet and laid it on the parapet beside him.
“Pleasant way to spend an evenin’, ain’t it?” he said. “You make up your mind just how you’ll go, when you get good and ready. An’ then you wonder who’ll find you first, an’ whether they’ll take you to the hospital or the morgue, an’ what a time they’ll have figurin’ out who the devil you are, an’ how blue your folks’ll be, an’ how they’ll wish they’d given you that horse-shoe stickpin for Christmas, an’ how your girl’ll go on, an’ all. O there ain’t nothin’ like it for passin’ the time.”
“Say” demanded Jerry, turning upon his companion with some loftiness, “where do you get that stuff?”
“Why? Do you smell it?” asked the policeman. He ran the powerful hand of the law through a grizzled pompadour.
“N-no,” returned Jerry slowly, eyeing this operation not without interest. “You don’t mean to say that any of your hair ever came out, do you?”
“Huh-huh.” The policeman’s singsong betrayed no surprise at this abrupt turn of the conversation. “It started droppin’ like leaves in the fall o’ the year, when I was about as young as you.”
“What did you do?” inquired Jerry, not displeased, a little incredulous, and now unfeignedly interested.