n on an outside
seat, panting, sweating, overcome by the exertion. He followed George's
eyes as the latter looked him up and down.

"A hell of a brother YOU are," was George's comment when he had finished
the inspection.

Moisture welled into Al's eyes.

"It's my stomach," he said with self-pity.

"I don't wonder," was the retort. "Burnt out like the crater of a
volcano. Fervent heat isn't a circumstance."

Thereafter they did not speak. When they arrived at the transfer point,
George came to himself with a start. He smiled. With fixed gaze that
did not see the houses that streamed across his field of vision, he had
himself been sunk deep in self-pity. He helped his brother from the car,
and looked up the intersecting street. The car they were to take was not
in sight.

Al's eyes chanced upon the corner grocery and saloon across the way.
At once he became restless. His hands passed beyond his control, and he
yearned hungrily across the street to the door that swung open even as
he looked and let in a happy pilgrim. And in that instant he saw the
white-jacketed bartender against an array of glittering glass. Quite
unconsciously he started to cross the street.

"Hold on." George's hand was on his arm.

"I want some whisky," he answered.

"You've already had some."

"That was hours ago. Go on, George, let me have some. It's the last
day. Don't shut off on me until we get there--God knows it will be soon
enough."

George glanced desperately up the street. The car was in sight.

"There isn't time for a drink," he said.

"I don't want a drink. I want a bottle." Al's voice became wheedling.
"Go on, George. It's the last, the very last."

"No." The denial was as final as George's thin lips could make it.

Al glanced at the approaching car. He sat down suddenly on the
curbstone.

"What's the matter?" his brother asked, with momentary alarm.

"Nothing. I want some whisky. It's my stomach."

"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 th