Then he took off another ten and handed it to Feuerstein. ``Good
fel', Fishy,'' he mumbled, ``'f y' are a dead beat.''

Feuerstein added the ten to the thirty and ordered more whisky.
Dippel tried to doze, but he would not permit it. ``He mustn't
sleep any of it off,'' he thought.

When the whisky came Dippel shook himself together and started
up. ``G'-night,'' he said, trying to stand, look and talk
straight. ``Don't f'rget, y'owe me ten dollarses--no, two ten
dollarses.''

``Oh, sit down,'' coaxed Feuerstein, taking him by the arm.
``It's early yet.''

Dippel shook him off with much dignity. ``Don' touch me!'' he
growled. ``I know what I'm 'bout. I'm goin' home.'' Then to
himself, but aloud: ``Dippy, you're too full f'r utterance--you
mus' shake this beat.'' Again to Feuerstein:

``G'night, Mr. Funkelshine--g'night. Sit there till I'm gone.''

Feuerstein rose to follow and Dippel struck at him. The waiter
seized each by the shoulder and flung them through the swinging
doors. Dippel fell in a heap on the sidewalk, but Feuerstein
succeeded in keeping to his feet. He went to the assistance of
Dippel.

``Don't touch me,'' shouted Dippel.