“Got money?”
“Yes, a couple of dollars.”
“I’ll fix it for you,” he said most condescendingly. He went over to the bars and shouted, “Hey, Finnerty!”
In a minute the head trusty, a thin, weazened, rat-eyed, undersized character, came up.
“Cigarettes, matches? Sure. Anything else?”
I produced a dollar.
“What’s the matter with a can of coffee and some snails?” said the hypo.
“Get whatever you can,” I said, giving him the dollar.
Finnerty disappeared, and in a surprisingly short time came back with cigarettes, a gallon fruit tin half full of splendid coffee, and a bag of snails. The two young fellows took charge of the coffee and snails, spread a newspaper on the floor, and very cordially invited me to help myself.
While we were having our lunch the talk was diplomatically turned to dope and the shortage that menaced my two hypo friends and the sufferings they would undergo when there was no more and the “habit” came on, and the necessity for a shot in the morning as a bracer for them when they faced the judge. They grew so despondent over their plight that when we were done eating they decided to “shoot up” the small portion of white stuff they had left. They brightened up after this operation was over, and things looked rosier.