"Make it a triple," the little man called, and the bartender smiled as if his face hurt.
There was a pained expression on Ernie. He sank his head into his arms.
"Cheer up," the man said. "It isn't worth all that."
"What isn't?"
"Be happy, man."
"I'll be happy when I get out of here, but I'll be hilarious when I find out the score—and I plan to be hilarious before I get happy. Is that clear?"
"You talk as if you had been drinking already, man. Snap out of it. I like men with clear heads."
It was not only a delaying tactic, Ernie thought; it was plainly a case of nerve-busting. They were going to force it out of him. He had already conceded they were not a gang of thieves using his basement for a hideaway; they were not digging a secret tunnel for the Defense Department.
"You like men with clear heads? What am I, some sort of recruit?"
"Now!" the man exclaimed, suddenly thrust into a new frame of mind. "We are now on the same plane. You are a recruit and we can understand each other now."