“Come on,” invites the Ohioan, “and have some drinks.  I’ve been at it—­for two days, but the inf—­ernal stuff won’t bite like it used to.  Goodall of Memphis, what’s your respiration?”

“Twenty-four.”

“Daily—­temperature?”

“Hundred and four.”

“You can do it in two days.  It’ll take me a—­week.  Tank up, friend Goodall—­have all the fun you can; then—­off you go, in the middle of a jag, and s-s-save trouble and expense.  I’m a s-son of a gun if this ain’t a health resort—­for your whiskers!  A Lake Erie fog’d get lost here in two minutes.”

“You said something about a drink,” says Goodall.

A few minutes later they line up at a glittering bar, and hang upon the arm rest.  The bartender, blond, heavy, well-groomed, sets out their drinks, instantly perceiving that he serves two of the Three Thousand.  He observes that one is a middle-aged man, well-dressed, with a lined and sunken face; the other a mere boy who is chiefly eyes and overcoat.  Disguising well the tedium begotten by many repetitions, the server of drinks begins to chant the sanitary saga of Santone.  “Rather a moist night, gentlemen, for our town.  A little fog from our river, but nothing to hurt.  Repeated Tests.”

“Damn your litmus papers,” gasps Toledo—­“without any—­personal offense intended.”

“We’ve heard of ’em before.  Let ’em turn red, white and blue.  What we want is a repeated test of that—­whiskey.  Come again.  I paid for the last round, Goodall of Memphis.”

The bottle oscillates from one to the other, continues to do so, and is not removed from the counter.  The bartender sees two emaciated invalids dispose of enough Kentucky Belle to floor a dozen cowboys, without displaying any emotion save a sad and contemplative interest in the peregrinations of the bottle.  So he is moved to manifest a solicitude as to the consequences.

“Not on your Uncle Mark Hanna,” responds Toledo, “will we get drunk.  We’ve been—­vaccinated with whiskey—­and—­cod liver oil.  What would send you to the police station—­only gives us a thirst.  S-s-set out another bottle.”

It is slow work trying to meet death by that route.  Some quicker way must be found.  They leave the saloon and plunge again into the mist.  The sidewalks are mere flanges at the base of the houses; the street a cold ravine, the fog filling it like a freshet.  Not far away is the Mexican quarter.  Conducted as if by wires along the heavy air comes a guitar’s tinkle, and the demoralizing voice of some senorita singing: 

   “En las tardes sombrillos del invierro
    En el prado a Marar me reclino
    Y maldigo mi fausto destino—­
    Una vida la mas infeliz.”

The words of it they do not understand—­neither Toledo nor Memphis, but words are the least important things in life.  The music tears the breasts of the seekers after Nepenthe, inciting Toledo to remark: