Corey’s eyelids lowered slightly, lazily. And a dim, lazy smile drifted across his lips. He looked at the mugger and didn’t say anything.

The mugger frowned. He bit the corner of his mouth, then muttered, “Another thing you can’t do. You can’t rat. You wouldn’t rat. Or maybe you would. You’re just hungry enough—”

Corey didn’t seem to hear. He’d turned his head and was looking at the unconscious boozehound on the other side of the street. He murmured to the mugger, “You hit him hard?”

“Just tapped him.”

“With what?”

“Blackjack,” the mugger said. His frown deepened and he took a backward step, carefully, slowly. It was a defensive maneuver and he knew it and it bothered him.

Corey went on looking at the fallen man on the other side of the street. He murmured to the mugger, “You hit him too hard?”

“For Christ’s sake, I told ya. Just a light tap. He was ready to pass out anyway. Won’t even raise a lump.”

Just then the boozehound was starting to regain his senses. He stirred, rolled over, got to his knees and crawled a little. Then he lifted himself to his feet and walked around in a circle, and finally sat down on the pavement. He looked all around him, then looked up at the black sky and said loudly, clearly, “I’ll tell you what the trouble is. The trouble is, we just can’t get together, that’s all.”

The mugger said to Corey, “You see how it is? He’s all right. He won’t need no stitches, he won’t need nothin’. I tell ya he’s in good shape.”

“What did you take from him?” Corey asked.

“Whaddya mean, what did we take? What’s that to you?”

Corey showed another lazy smile. He closed his eyes for a moment, as though he was getting somewhat weary. Then his eyes half-opened and the smile faded. He looked directly at the mugger and waited.

The mugger shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “All right,” he said. “All right, Corey.”

“So what did you take?”

“The wallet,” the mugger said. He gestured toward his two associates on the other side of the street. “They got his watch and some other things. The watch is strictly drugstore. The entire haul won’t bring us more than—”

“Let’s see the wallet,” Corey cut in.

The mugger took another backward step.

“Come on,” Corey said slowly, wearily. “Come on—”

“You louse,” the mugger said. “You louse you.” He took the boozehound’s wallet from his pocket and handed it to Corey. There was a five and seven ones. Corey took six singles and returned the wallet to the mugger.