On their way they stopped at the Crystal Bar and ordered a quart of Cook’s Imperial Champagne and three bottles of stout. Mixed, this made a drink called Black Velvet, which they drank with considerable gusto, for, as O’Malley said: “Uncle Sty wouldn’t want his boys to come up smellin’ of something common like gin, for instance.” There was just enough for two glasses apiece, and when they came out onto the street again they all felt fine, especially Crane, who reflected that in the matter of sleep he was acting like a really first-class detective. “Do you guys know,” he said, “that I haven’t been to bed for twenty-eight hours? How’s that for devotion to my profession?” Williams asked, “You’re just overlookin’ that nap yesterday afternoon?” “Oh, you can hardly count that.” Crane waved a hand, airily dismissed the nap. “Why, it was just a short wink, not more than four or five hours.” In front of the La Salle Hotel they hailed a Checker cab, started for the Blackstone along nearly deserted streets.
