“No.” The denial was as final as George's thin lips could make it.
Al glanced at the approaching car. He sat down suddenly on the curbstone.
“What's the matter?” his brother asked, with momentary alarm.
“Nothing. I want some whisky. It's my stomach.”
“Come on now, get up.”
George reached for him, but was anticipated, for his brother sprawled flat on the pavement, oblivious to the dirt and to the curious glances of the passers-by. The car was clanging its gong at the crossing, a block away.
“You'll miss it,” Al grinned from the pavement. “And it will be your fault.”
George's fists clenched tightly.
“For two cents I'd give you a thrashing.”
“And miss the car,” was the triumphant comment from the pavement.