"Good glory! I hate whisky," he grumbled.
"Takes a barrel to have any effect on me too." He turned and looked down at Frank with a morose kind of pity.

"You go on and get your breakfast, kid.

I don't want any.

I'll stay here for awhile." He sat down on the side of the cheap, iron bedstead, and emptied his pockets on the top quilt.

He straightened the crumpled bills and counted them, and sorted the silver pieces.