"You—you—" gasped Blake.
"But this time," went on Griffith, hastily pouring out a brimming glassful of liquid from the pitcher, "we'll make an exception."
He turned about quickly, and with his hand clasped over the top of the glass, reached it out to Blake. Half maddened by his thirst, the latter clutched the glass, and, without pausing to look at its contents, drained it at a gulp. An instant later the glass shattered to fragments on the floor, and Blake's fist flung out toward Griffith.
"Quassia!" he growled. "You dotty old idiot! Needn't think you're going to head me off this soon!"
Griffith set the tray on his bed, and crossing to the door, locked it and put the key in his pocket.
"Now, Tommy," he croaked, "you've got just two friends that I know of. They're here. Maybe you can take the key from us; but you know what you'll have to do to us first."
Blake stared at him with morose, bloodshot eyes.
"You're dotty!" he growled. "You know you can't stop me, once I'm under way. I don't want to roughhouse it, but I want something for this thirst, and I'm going to have it. Understand?"
"H'm. If that's all," said Griffith.
"That's all, if you're reasonable," replied Blake less morosely. "They gave me all I wanted when I took the gold cure."