him, and his disinclination to move was stronger than his thirst. His
eyes, roving along the wall, fell upon the electric call button.
Stretching a sinewy arm to its full length he made dumb show of
pressing it, as he said, "One push, one cocktail; two pushes, two
cocktails!" Then he shook his head despairingly. "Too far, can't
reach it," he muttered. But his face brightened as his hand
accidentally touched his revolver. Out it flashed, and there was no
tremor in the long brown hand that held it in position. Bang! Bang!
Bang! went the gun, three shots in quick succession, and then three
more. "Six pushes, six cocktails!" he announced, triumphantly.

The button had been driven into the wall, and several holes hovered
close upon its wreck. A clatter of hurrying feet on the stairway and
the din of excited voices told him that his summons had at least
attracted attention. "Push button's a sure handy thing!" he exclaimed
aloud as he fell back on the bed, laughing drunkenly.

The footsteps halted outside and the voices sunk to whispers.
Presently Ellhorn, gazing expectantly at the door, saw a pair of
apprehensive eyes peering through the transom. At sight of the face he
waved his hand, which still grasped the gun, and called out, "Say, you,
I want six cocktails!" The face quickly dodged downward and the feet
and the whispering voices moved farther away. Then came the sound of a
rapid stride down the hall and a deep voice bellowed, "Nick, let me in!"

Nick called out "Tommy Tuttle!" and in walked a big bulk of a man, six
feet and more tall, with shoulders broad and burly and legs like tree
trunks. Ellhorn turned toward him a beaming face and broke into a
string of oaths. But his profanity was cordial and joyous. It bloomed
with glad welcome and was fragrant with good fellowship and brotherly