Diary of a Drug Fiend

The Wings of the Oof-Bird IoI I suppose my face must have fallen; a regular nose dive. Lou put her arm around my waist and dug her nails into my ribs. “Chuck it, Cockie,” she said, ‘‘ we’re well out of a mess. I always had my doubts about Feccles, and his going off like this looks to me as if there were something very funny about it.” My dream of a quarter of a million disappeared without a moment’s regret. I had been prudent after all. I had invested my cash in something tangible. Feccles was an obvious crook. If I had handed him that five thousand, I should never have heard of him or of it again. ' I began to recover my spirits. “Look here,” said Lou, “ let’s forget it. Write Feccles a note to say you couldn’t raise the money by the date it was wanted, and let’s get out. We ought to economise, in any case, Let's get off to Italy as we said. The exchange is awfully good, and _living’s delightfully cheap. It’s silly ‘spending money when you've got Love and Cocaine.” My spirit leapt to meet hers. I scribbled a note of apology to Feccles, and left it at the hotel. We dashed round to the Italian consulate to have our passport viséd, got our sleeping cars from the hotel porter, and had the maid‘ pack our things while we had a last heavenly dinner.