"Come on now, get up."

George reached for him, but was anticipated, for his brother sprawled flat
on the pavement, oblivious to the dirt and to the curious glances of the
passers-by. The car was clanging its gong at the crossing, a block away.

"You'll miss it," Al grinned from the pavement. "And it will be your
fault."

George's fists clenched tightly.

"For two cents I'd give you a thrashing."

"And miss the car," was the triumphant comment from the pavement.

George looked at the car. It was halfway down the block. He looked at his
watch. He debated a second longer.

"All right," he said. "I'll get it. But you get on that car. If you miss
it, I'll break the bottle over your head."

He dashed across the street and into the saloon. The car came in and
stopped. There were no passengers to get off. Al dragged himself up the
steps and sat down. He smiled as the conductor rang the bell and the car
started. The swinging door of the saloon burst open. Clutching in his
hand the suit case and a pint bottle of whisky, George started in pursuit.
The conductor, his hand on the bell cord, waited to see if it would be
necessary to stop. It was not. George swung lightly aboard, sat down
beside his brother, and passed him the bottle.