He remained in the Park till his cigar was entirely smoked, and then sauntered out with no definite object in view. It occurred to him, however, that he might as well call on the keeper of a liquor saloon on Baxter Street, which he had frequently patronized.
"How are you, Martin?" asked "Jim," that being the name by which the proprietor was generally known.
"Dry as a fish," was the suggestive reply.
"Then you've come to the right shop. What'll you have?"
Martin expressed his desire for a glass of whiskey, which was poured out, and hastily gulped down.
"I'm out of stamps," said Martin, coolly. "I s'pose you'll trust me till to-morrow."
"Why didn't you say you hadn't any money?" demanded Jim, angrily.
"Come," said Martin, "don't be hard on an old friend. I'll pay you to-morrow."
"Where'll the money come from?" demanded Jim, suspiciously.
This was a question which Martin was quite unable to answer satisfactorily to himself.