"Drink," he muttered hoarsely, "yes, drink."

The lights of a soda-water fountain struck his eye.

"Give me an egg phosphate," he said as he dashed his money
on the counter. He drank phosphate after phosphate till his
brain reeled. Mad with the liquor, he staggered to and fro
in the shop, weighed himself recklessly on the slot machine
three or four times, tore out chewing gum and matches from
the automatic nickel boxes, and finally staggered on to the
street, reeling from the effects of thirteen phosphates and
a sarsaparilla soda.

"Crime," he hissed. "Crime, crime, that's what I want."

He noticed that the passers-by made way for him now with
respect. On the corner of the street a policeman was standing.

Hezekiah picked up a cobblestone, threw it, and struck the
man full on the ear.

The policeman smiled at him roguishly, and then gently wagged
his finger in reproof. It was the same policeman who had
struck him fourteen weeks before for asking the way.

Hezekiah moved on, still full of his new idea of crime. Down
the street was a novelty shop, the window decked with New
Year's gifts.

"Sell me a revolver," he said.