“Nod this wod. Sobe day I’ll ged pneumodia and die—dab id.”
“A feller don’t last long when he gets that,” declared the bartender hollowly. The sufferer shook his head, shivered and sneezed.
“You ought to take care of yourself, pardner.”
“No use,” wearily. “I’be fought id all by life. It’ll ged be sobe day—dab it.”
“It kinda takes the joy out of life, when yuh know darn well it’ll get yuh in the end,” sympathized the bartender.
“Pneumodia is bad,” nodded the man tearfully. “Shuds off your wid.”
“Why don’tcha see a doctor?”
“Nobe.”
“Scared?”
“Whad you don’t know won’t hurd yuh.” He poured out another drink of sweet whisky, shuddered violently, ran a finger across his nose and buttoned up his collar.