An uncongenial chill began to pervade the room. Fatty Harris, as master cook, visibly hastened the operations.
The Tennessee Shad was now heard to say in a mumbled jumble:
"Hurrah for crime! Never say die, boys—dead game sports—give us a drink, bartender!"
The revelers stood at the bed looking wrathfully down at the cynic, who snored heavily and said drowsily:
"Talks in his sleep, he talks in his sleep, poor old Pol!"
"Don't pay any attention to him," said Stover angrily. "He's a cheap wit. What are you doing at the door, Pee-wee?"
"I'm listening," said Norris, turning guiltily.
"You're afraid!"
"I'm not; only let's hurry it up."
Fatty Harris, watching the swirling yellow depths of the rabbit with evident anxiety, emptied a third of the beer into it and held out the bottle, saying: