“I don't wonder,” was the retort. “Burnt out like the crater of a volcano. Fervent heat isn't a circumstance.”
Thereafter they did not speak. When they arrived at the transfer point, George came to himself with a start. He smiled. With fixed gaze that did not see the houses that streamed across his field of vision, he had himself been sunk deep in self-pity. He helped his brother from the car, and looked up the intersecting street. The car they were to take was not in sight.
Al's eyes chanced upon the corner grocery and saloon across the way. At once he became restless. His hands passed beyond his control, and he yearned hungrily across the street to the door that swung open even as he looked and let in a happy pilgrim. And in that instant he saw the white-jacketed bartender against an array of glittering glass. Quite unconsciously he started to cross the street.
“Hold on.” George's hand was on his arm.
“I want some whisky,” he answered.
“You've already had some.”
“That was hours ago. Go on, George, let me have some. It's the last day. Don't shut off on me until we get there—God knows it will be soon enough.”
George glanced desperately up the street. The car was in sight.
“There isn't time for a drink,” he said.
“I don't want a drink. I want a bottle.” Al's voice became wheedling. “Go on, George. It's the last, the very last.”