"You made an elegant try," says I; "but there wasn't water enough."
"Thank goodness!" says he. "Now I can die calmly."
"What's the use dyin'?" says I. "Ain't there no thin' else left to do but that?"
"I've got to," says he. "I can't live on that cursed stuff they've been giving me, and if I eat anything else I'm done for. The specialist said so."
"Oh, well," says I, "maybe he's made a wrong guess. It's your turn now. Suppose you come in and let me have Mother Whaley broil you a nice juicy hunk of steak?"
Say, he was near starved. I could tell that by the way he looked when I mentioned broiled steak. He shook his head, though. "If I did, I'd die before morning," says he.
"I'll bet you a dollar you wouldn't," says I.
That almost gets a grin out of him. "Shorty," says he, "I'm going to risk it."
"It's better'n starving to death," says I.
And he sure did eat like a hungry man. When he'd put away a good square meal, includin' a dish of sliced raw onions and two cups of hot tea, I plants him in an arm chair and shoves out the cigar box. He looks at the Fumadoras regretful.