"Why, Haggerty, what's up? Come on in. Be still, Fritz!"

The dachel's growl ended in a friendly snuffle, and he began to dance
upon Haggerty's broad-toed shoes.

"Bottle of beer? Cigar? Take that easy chair. What's on your mind
tonight?" Forbes rattled away. "Why, man, there's a cut on the side
of your head!"

"Uhuh. Got any witch-hazel?" The detective sat down, stretched out
his legs, and pulled the dachel's ears.

Forbes ran into the bathroom to fetch the witch-hazel. Haggerty poured
a little into his palm and dabbled the wound with it.

"Now, spin it out; tell me what's happened," said Forbes, filling his
calabash and pushing the cigars across the table.

For a year and a half these two men, the antitheses of each other, had
been intimate friends. This liking was genuine, based on secret
admiration, as yet to be confessed openly. Forbes had always been
drawn toward this man-hunting business; he yearned to rescue the
innocent and punish the guilty. Whenever a great crime was committed
he instantly overflowed with theories as to what the criminal was
likely to do afterward. Haggerty enjoyed listening to his patter; and
often there were illuminating flashes which obtained results for the
detective, who never applied his energies in the direction of logical
deduction. Besides, the chairs in the studio were comfortable, the
imported beer not too cold, and the cigars beyond criticism.