The little man peeled a twenty off a roll of bills and threw it down.
"Keep the other five bottles for me!" he cried in a shaky voice, and ran out, with me after him, forgetting his change and to shut the door behind us.
Back through McGrue's bar we trailed like one of these moving-picture chases and into the back room.
"Well, here we are home again," said I.
The stranger grabbed a glass and filled it half full of soothing syrup.
"Here, you aren't going to drink that!" I yelled at him. "Didn't you hear Sol tell you the dose is a spoonful?"
But he didn't pay me any attention. His hand was shaking so he could hardly connect with his own mouth, and he was panting as though he'd run a race.
"Well, no accounting for tastes," I said. "Where do you want me to ship your remains?"
He drank her down, shut his eyes a few minutes, and held still. He had quit his shaking, and he looked me square in the face.
"What's it to you?" he demanded. "Huh? Ain't you never seen a guy hit the hop before?"