Jim shifted his position slightly, for the hinge was beginning to trouble his shoulder blade, and fetched a sigh that was almost a moan. Such had been his life, merely that, and the future looked as bad or worse. The shilling bar grew a bit misty before him and he knew it wouldn't take much to make his eyes run over.
"Anything wrong, Jim?" inquired the sympathetic bartender.
"Just a little blue to-night, Jack, that's all."
"Sometimes I get into those spells myself. Hell, ain't they?"
Jim nodded. "I suppose they come from nervousness."
The bartender nodded back. "Or liver," said he, setting out the red bottle. "Have a smile."
"No, I don't want any more of that damned stuff. A man's a fool to let it get away with him, and sometimes I figure I better watch out—not but what I can't control myself, y'understand." There was the slightest interrogation in his tone.
"Sure y'can, Jim; I know that. Still," dubiously, "like you say, a fellow ought to watch out. It'll land the K.O. on the stoutest lad in shoes, if he keeps a-fightin' it."
"It's for use and not abuse. Ain't I right?"
The bartender conspicuously helped himself to a swallow of lithia. "Yep, sure," he said. "D'you know, Jim, I'm kind of sorry you didn't go home to supper to-night."