“Have a cigarette.” Andrews sat down on the foot of the bed and threw a cigarette towards Chrisfield. “Have one?” he asked Al.
“No. I couldn't smoke. I'm almost crazy with this hand. One of the wheels went over it.... I cut what was left of the little finger off with a razor.” Andrews could see the sweat rolling down his cheek as he spoke.
“Christ, that poor beggar's been havin' a time, Andy. We was 'askeert to get a doctor, and we all didn't know what to do.”
“I got some pure alcohol an' washed it in that. It's not infected. I guess it'll be all right.”
“Where are you from, Al?” asked Andrews.
“'Frisco. Oh, I'm goin' to try to sleep. I haven't slept a wink for four nights.”
“Why don't you get some dope?”
“Oh, we all ain't had a cent to spare for anythin', Andy.”
“Oh, if we had kale we could live like kings—not,” said Al in the middle of a nervous little giggle.
“Look, Chris,” said Andrews, “I'll halve with you. I've got five hundred francs.”