"Sure," responded Bat, agreeably. "There's no rule against that."
He lighted the cigar, which burned badly and threw out a yellowish smoke. The hollow-chested man saw the disfavor in Bat's look, and grinned.
"Burns like a salad, don't it? I never smoke myself. I've got a cough, and the doc's against it."
As though to prove his statement he coughed persistently for a full minute; then with a breath whistling thinly in his throat, he poured the strong liquor through it.
"Yes, sir," gasped he, holding to the bar with weak hands, "if it wasn't for the old stuff I'd passed in my last check before now. It keeps me going. Great goods!" Then with a look of commiseration at Bat, he added: "But maybe it's just as well you're off it."
"Me and it don't hook up right," Bat confided to him. "It gets my hand out. I can't stand it the way fellows like you do."
The hollow-chested man surveyed the speaker's big form and a look of gratification came into his face.
"I guess that's so," said he. "I'm kind of under weight, but I'm a pretty tough guy, for all. If it wasn't for the cough, I'd be holding my own. And, say, on the square, I think the old juice is putting the cough away. I do, for a fact. And if it does, and I can get some sleep at night, maybe I'll come through, anyway."
"Sure," said Bat, sociably. "Sure thing."
The eyes of the big athlete searched the place as they had done a dozen times since he entered. But there was no one present who answered to the description he'd had of the burglar, Big Slim.