“Say, Al, do you want me to get you anything at the drug store?”
“No. I won't do anythin' but lay low and bathe it with alcohol now and then, against infection. Anyways, it's the first of May. You'll be crazy to go out. You might get pulled. They say there's riots going on.”
“Gosh, I forgot it was the first of May,” cried Andrews. “They're running a general strike to protest against the war with Russia and....”
“A guy told me,” interrupted Al, in a shrill voice, “there might be a revolution.”
“Come along, Andy,” said Chris from the door.
On the stairs Andrews felt Chrisfield's hand squeezing his arm hard.
“Say, Andy,” Chris put his lips close to Andrews's ear and spoke in a rasping whisper. “You're the only one that knows... you know what. You an' that sergeant. Doan you say anythin' so that the guys here kin ketch on, d'ye hear?”
“All right, Chris, I won't, but man alive, you oughtn't to lose your nerve about it. You aren't the only one who ever shot an...”
“Shut yer face, d'ye hear?” muttered Chrisfield savagely.
They went down the stairs in silence. In the room next, to the bar they found the Chink reading a newspaper.