“I’ll hire a cab, and drive down to Black End. Most of them seem to lie that way.”
Murchison was looking for a clean place in the roller-towel.
“I can manage the visiting down there,” he said.
John Tugler surveyed him attentively over a fat shoulder.
“You’ll knock up, old man,” he remarked, quietly.
Murchison started. The familiarity had a touch of tenderness that lifted it from its vulgar setting.
“Thanks, no.”
“Very bad, is she?”
“Comatose.”
“Oh, damn!”