Part 56 (1/2)
”It's going to be a real one,” said Stover, ”making a distinction.”
”Come off!”
”Fact. It is not going to be flavored with rootbeer, toothwash, condensed milk or russet polish; it is going to be the genuine, satisfaction guaranteed, or you get your money back.”
”With beer?”
”Exactly.”
”Yes, it is!”
”It is.”
”Where'll you get it?”
”I have ways.”
”Oh,” said the Tennessee Shad sarcastically, ”this is one of your real, sporting-life parties, is it?”
Stover disdained to answer.
”Is that bunch of slums going to be here?”
”Are you referring to my friends?” said Stover.
”I am,” said the Tennessee Shad, ”and all I ask while this feast of baccha.n.a.lian orgies is going on, is that _I_ be allowed to sleep.”
At eleven o'clock Stover, holding his shoes in his hand, went down the stairs to meet Slops in Fatty Harris' room and thence into the outlawed night. They stole over the crinkling snow, burying their noses in their sweaters, until, having climbed several fences, they arrived behind a shed of particularly cavernous appearance.
”Make the signal,” said Slops, sheltering himself behind Stover.
Blinky appeared like a monster of the night.
”Hist, Blinky, O. K.?” said Slops, who, having his shoulder to d.i.n.k's recovered his sporting manner. ”Got the booze?”
”I got it,” said Blinky in husky accents, with his hand behind his back. ”What's youse got?”
”The cash is here all right. How many bots did you bring?”
Blinky slowly brought forward one bottle.
”What, only one?” said Slops the baccha.n.a.lian, in dismay.
”All's left,” said Blinky, with a double meaning.
”How much?”
”One dollar.”
”What! You robber!”