sipped slowly, tasting of wormwood. In the bar-mirror he could watch
every move made by Jameson. No one went in. He had evidently paid in
advance for the bottle of gin. Thomas ordered his fifth glass of ale,
and saw Jameson's head sink forward a little. Thomas' sigh almost
split his heart in twain. Jameson's head went up suddenly, and with a
drunken smile he reached for the bottle and poured out a stiff potion.
He drank it neat.

Thomas wiped his palms on his sleeves and ordered a cigar.

"Lonesome?" asked the swart bartender. This good-looking chap was
rather a puzzle to him. He wasn't waiting for anybody, and he wasn't
trying to get drunk. Five ales in an hour and not a dozen words; just
an ordinary Britisher who didn't know how to amuse himself in Gawd's
own country.

Jameson's head fell upon his arms. With assured step Thomas walked
toward the corridor which divided the so-called wine-rooms. At the end
of the corridor was a door. He did not care where it led so long as it
led outside this evil-smelling den. He found the room empty opposite
Jameson's. He went in quietly. The shabby waiter followed him,
soft-footed as a cat.

"A bottle of Old Tom," said Thomas.

The waiter nodded and slipped out. He saw the sleeper in the other
room, and gently closed the door.

"Gink in number two wants a bottle o' gin. He's th' kind. Layer o'
ale an' then his quart. Th' real souse."