The wise guy said no more, but stood by the door waiting to go out. He was standing there when I left in the morning.
Georgie turned to his companion. “That last shot didn’t hit me right; we’d better cook up another an’ begin to get straightened up for court.”
Having bought the stuff for them, I took the liberty to sit by while they took their shot, which they did without seeming to notice me. Their bony arms were gray, like pieces of petrified wood. The skin was pocked with marks, mottled and scarred from the repeated, hourly stabbing of the needle. Their shirt sleeves were encrusted with dried blood from the many punctures. And yet they appeared oblivious to it all.
“Have a little shot, young fellow?” Georgie asked cordially.
I declined. “What would happen to me if I did?” I asked.
“Why, nothing; you’d lie down on the bench and sleep like a baby till time to go out in the morning, that’s all.”
“Yes! And what would happen to the balance of my silver while I am sleeping like a baby?”
Georgie’s partner cut in like a flash: “This is what would happen. Me and Georgie would stick right here by you and see that nobody frisked you for it.”
I laughed so loud that the desk officer thinking some one had gone hysterical, stood up sleepily and peered over his desk into the cell. The other bums stirred uneasily in their sleep. Mine was the only laugh there that night. I could laugh then; I didn’t know anything about hop.
My companions didn’t seem hurt or offended because of my intimation that they had designs on my last four-bit piece. They fell to discussing their case and preparing a talk for the judge in the morning. Georgie was for pleading guilty, and his chum wanted to “talk the judge out of it.” They couldn’t agree, and looked at me. I ventured to ask what they had done.