“Turn on the lights,” commanded Kirby.
Copeland sat on the bed, staring at them foolishly.
“Wherenell am I?” he asked blinking. “Thiss jail or somebody’s parlor?”
“Your nerve, young man,” Kirby remarked to Jerry, “leaves nothing to be desired. I suppose it didn’t occur to you that this is my room?”
“Oh, that will be all right. If the cops ain’t back here in ten minutes, they’ll probably think he’s skipped; and they won’t waste time looking for him; they know they can pick him up to-morrow, easy enough.”
“Zhat you, Kirby, good old boy; right off Broadway! Kind of you, ’m sure. Good boy, Amidon; wouldn’t let your boss get hauled off in patrol wagon. Raise wages for that; ’preciate it; mos’ grateful!”
“All right; but please stop talking,” Jerry admonished. “We’ll all get pinched if the cops find out you’re here.”
“Los’ five thous; five thou-sand dollars; hons’ to God I did!”
Copeland’s face was aflame from drink and the heat, and unable to comprehend what had happened to him he tumbled over on the bed. Kirby eyed him contemptuously and turned upon Amidon angrily.
“This is a nice mess of cats! Would you mind telling me what you’re going to do with our fallen brother? Please remember that reputation’s my only asset, and if I get arrested my house might not pass it off as a little joke!”