It told secrets on itself.
He called for paper and pencil, and for drinks all around, and while they drank his very good health, he clung to the bar and scribbled.
"A telegram, Joe," he said.

"Read it." Joe read it with a drunken, quizzical leer.

But what he read seemed to sober him.

He looked at the other reproachfully, tears oozing into his eyes and down his cheeks.
"You ain't goin' back on me, Mart ?" he queried hopelessly.
Martin nodded, and called one of the loungers to him to take the message to the telegraph office.
"Hold on," Joe muttered thickly.

"Lemme think." He held on to the bar, his legs wobbling under him, Martin's arm around him and supporting him, while he thought.
"Make that two laundrymen," he said abruptly.