"Nix on that reform stuff," he said, and his own voice was a little unsteady as he said it. "Let me tell you something. I tried that game, and it wouldn't go down. I tried that after I got out. I hit Chicago and stumbled into the Pacific Garden Mission there, where old Harry Monroe used to hold out for all the jail-birds like me. Well, I tried the dope. I hit the trial, and got drunk on oratory the same as other down-and-outers get drunk on gin. But they couldn't do the Billy-Sunday trick with me, for they couldn't show me how to live on big talk. And I've got to live. And I only know one way of doing it!"
"But is it living?" I asked him.
"Well, whatever you want to call it, it's about all I'm going to get," was Bud's ungracious retort. "And I guess we've wasted enough time on this spiel about our souls. I'm not worrying about the hereafter. What I want is something that's going to keep me more comfortable right here on earth!"
I had never before heard Bud talk in that strain, and it was a shock to me. It worried me even more than the ugly-looking automatic which he still kept poised in front of him.
"And where are you going to get it?" I asked,
