He selected a tablet from each receptacle, put them in his big mouth and took a big drink from a broken-handle pitcher. Then he put on a derby hat, yanked it down around his ears, and went heavily down the hall and into the street.
For several moments he stood on the wooden sidewalk, looking up and down the street, before crossing to the Road Runner saloon, where he leaned against the bar. The sleepy-eyed bartender shuffled around behind the bar and waited for the order.
“Rog and rye,” thickly.
The bartender placed the bottle and glasses on the bar and watched the man toss off a full glass of the sweet whisky.
“Yo’re the only man I ever seen that drank rock and rye all the time,” observed the bartender. “Got a cold?”
“I hab. It’s killid be by idches—dab id!”
He sneezed violently, clinging to the bar with both hands. When he looked up there was a great fear in his eyes.
“Why don’tcha take somethin’ for it?” asked the bartender.
“Take sobedig? I’ve tried id all.” He shivered, and poured out another drink.
“Had it long?”