“We need to talk, Wilkes,” Sam Arnold declared to his boyhood chum. “Let"s go in here.” With hail pelting them and a gale force wind whipping their coats, they dashed into Deery"s Billiard Parlor and Saloon.
Booth ordered a quart of brandy, opened it, and started drinking before he even found a table. Scraping a chair along the sawdust-covered floor, he plunked the bottle down and slid it over to Sam with a glass.
Sam was busy fumbling with a cigar and a match. He wouldn"t look Booth in the eye.
“Here, Sammy, drink up.” He pushed the glass right in front of him. “You need it more than I do.”
He waved it away. “No, thanks, I"d best stay sober for the time being.”
“Good boy. Another thing I"ve always admired about you, you"re not over-fond of your glass. Well? What"s on your sober mind?
