"When can you come on?" says I.
"I'll begin now, if you don't mind," says he.
Then it was up to me; so I goes to work. Inside of ten minutes I had a fair notion of how Pinckney was put up. He wasn't as skimpy as he'd looked from the outside, but I saw that it wouldn't be safe to try the mitts: I might forget and put a little steam into the punch—then it would be a case of sweepin' up the pieces.
"Hold that out," says I, chuckin' him the shot-bag.
He put it out; but all there was in him was bracin' that arm.
"What you need," says I, "is a little easy track-work in the open, plenty of cold water before breakfast, and sleep in ten-hour doses."
"I couldn't sleep five hours at a stretch, much less ten," says he.
"We'll take something for that," says I.
We gets together a couple suits of running-togs, sweaters, towels and things, and goes downstairs where Pinckney has a big plum-colored homicide wagon waitin' for him.
"Tell Goggles to point for Jerome-ave.," says I. "There's a track out there we can use."