“Have it your own way.”
A saloon-keeper’s boy passed by with a steaming pitcher of hot punch, and Boggs snuffed the fragrance gratefully.
He gazed fondly after the boy, and saw him start up the Enterprise stairs.
I said:
“I wish you could help me get that school business, but since you can’t, I must run up to the Union office and see if I can get a proof of it after it’s set up, though I don’t begin to suppose I can. Good night.”
“Hold on a minute. I don’t mind getting the report and sitting around with the boys a little while you copy it, if you’re willing to drop down to the principal’s with me.”
“Now you talk like a human being. Come along.”
We ploughed a couple of blocks through the snow, got the report—a short document—and soon copied it in our office.
Meantime, Boggs helped himself to the punch.
I gave the manuscript back to him, and we started back to get an inquest.