Man who drinks like you and don’t eat; he’s gonna die.

Remington He stopped short as a man vomited a great fountain across his path. Francis looked at the man dubiously and then glanced at the sun overhead. It was late morning and, to Francis’s mind, not the normal time for drunks to spew their guts out. He looked the man over as the drunk wiped his mouth with a filthy shirt sleeve.

“Goddamn, mister, you’re a mess.”

The man looked him over, bewildered and a little annoyed. He belched in the deputy marshal’s face.

“Look at the mess you’ve made, mister.” Francis pointed at the vomitus on the ground. “Goddamn, I’ve seen little children with better self-control. What the hell’s wrong with you?” Francis was not angry, but he meant what he was saying. He didn’t like to see another human being in such a state.

The man looked as if he were going to cry as Francis dug around a vest pocket for his tobacco pouch. He twisted a smoke and handed it to the man; he twisted another for himself. “When’d you eat last, mister?”

He regarded the detritus on the ground, as if the man’s stomach contents might give him the answer to his question.

“Don’t know. Yesterday maybe. Think so. Can’t remember.” He hesitated, concentrated and then looked at Francis. “Not much hungry these days.”

“Come on with me. I’m gonna arrest you, get you something to eat.” He took the man by the shoulder, like a kindly old school master; this looked odd, as Francis was at least thirty years younger than the drunken man, who complied without argument. The old vagrant was thoroughly played out.

“Goddamn, son. Man who drinks like you and don’t eat; he’s gonna die.”

The man looked Francis dead in the eye and said, “When?” Allingham