"Of course you will. We'll play again to-night." "Here?" "No, in New York. I'll show you a good saloon in Chatham street." Sam stepped up to the counter. "How much do you want?" he asked. "Sixty cents." "It's only twenty-five cents a game," said Jim Nolan. "Your game was longer than two ordinary ones. I'll call it fifty cents." Sam produced the ten-dollar bill, and received in return nine dollars and a half. The clerk was rather surprised at a boy presenting so large a bill. He suspected that it was not come by honestly; but, as he argued, that was none of his business. What he cared for most was to get paid for the billiards. So Sam, who had felt a little uneasy about offering the money, was more at his ease. "We had a good game, didn't we?" said Jim. "Yes," said Sam. "And you did bully for the first time. I couldn't play so well my first game." Sam felt flattered by this compliment from his companion. "Now I must go back," he said. "I'll go along back with you. But we'll take a drink first. I want to change my bill too." "Why didn't you do it in the billiard-saloon? They had a bar there." "They might suspect something if both of us offered tens. Here's a place close by. Come in here." Jim led the way into a drinking-saloon, and Sam followed. "It's my treat," said Jim. "What'll you have?" "What are you goin' to take?" "A whiskey-punch." "I'll take one too." "Two whiskey-punches, and mind you make 'em stiff," said Jim. He tossed down his glass, but Sam drank more slowly. Jim paid for the drinks, and they went out into the street. CHAPTER XXIV. SAM'S EXCUSES. Sam was not used to liquor, and was more easily affected than most. When he got out into the street his head spun round, and he staggered. His companion observed it. "Why, you don't mean ter say yer tight, Sam?" he said, pausing and looking at him. "I don't know what it is," said Sam, "but I feel queer." "Kinder light in the head, and shaky in the legs?" "Yes, that's the way I feel." "Then you're drunk." "Drunk!" ejaculated Sam, rather frightened, for he was still unsophisticated compared with his companion. "Just so. I say, you must be a chicken to get tight on one whiskey-punch," added Jim, rather contemptuously. "It was strong," said Sam, by way of apology, leaning against a lamp-post for support. "It was stiffish," said Jim. "I always take 'em so." "And don't you feel it at all?" queried Sam. "Not a bit," said Jim, decidedly. "I aint a baby." "Nor I either," said Sam, with a spark of his accustomed spirit. "Only I aint used to it." "Why, I could take three glasses, one after the other, without gettin' tight," said Jim, proudly. "I tell you, I've got a strong stomach." "I wish I hadn't taken the drink," said Sam. "When will I feel better?" "In an hour or two." "I can't go back to the doctor this way. He'll know I've been drinkin'. I wish I could lie down somewhere."