ear!"

The old dear arose grumbling and proceeded to obey, pulling the door
key from his pocket. She followed him into the building, where their
advent was hailed with joy by the prisoner, upon whose hands time was
already beginning to hang heavy.

"That you, Drusilla? Say--that's fine! Twenty-five cents a day is the
food allowance in this jail, and nineteen of that is grafted by some
one before it turns into grub." He accepted the basket from Moody, who
promptly relocked the door of the cell. "Get a chair, Drusilla, and we
can talk while I polish off this dinner."

"No, you don't," corrected Moody. "What do you think this is--a hotel?
You can have five minutes, young woman, an' then out you go!"

He went back to his doorstep and resumed his pipe. He might or might
not be within earshot; Drusilla could not determine which and she dared
not take chances. Fortunately she had guarded against such a
contretemps as this by providing a second line of communication, and
after chatting loudly with her _vis-a-vis_ through the bars of his cell
she suddenly dropped her voice and whispered swiftly:

"Bottom of the basket. A note. Read it!"

He registered his perfect comprehension by an eloquent wink the while
he discoursed long and loudly upon more innocent topics. They
exchanged sally and quip through the forbidding grille until a warning
grumble from the doorstep marked the expiration of the five minutes and
the end of their interview.

"'Night, Charlie. See you again soon!"

"'Night, Drusilla--and thanks. If you run into old Varr, give him a
bust on the head for me!"

"Hush, Charlie--you shouldn't talk that way! Should he, Mr. Moody?"
she added brightly to Cerberus as she passed him. "I'm always telling
him he talks too much and doesn't mean half what he says."

"Every one talks too much except me," declared the disappointed
disciple of Bacchus. "I only talk when I'm drinkin', and I haven't
said a word for months and I haven't been what you might call
loquacious for some years."

"Charlie knows where to get liquor," suggested Drusilla, quick to seize
this happy opportunity to titivate the jailer's thirst. "Make him get
you some!"

"On your way!" said Mr. Moody virtuously--but thoughtfully.

Charlie Maxon, hearing their voices and sure that he was unobserved,
delved rapidly into the bottom of the basket at some cost to a custard
pie that recklessly intervened. He discovered a quart of rye which h