finding suggestion of either ancestral worth or native resourcefulness.

His companion was swart and bandy-legged, with rat-eyes and a
much-broken hooked nose. His defiant air was obviously a pretense, a
weapon of protection borrowed from that world of snarl and snap, of
physical bluff and physical menace, in which he had always lived. His
name was Gus Rose.

Leaving the cafe they sauntered down Sixth Avenue, wielding toothpicks
with great gusto and complete detachment.

"Where to?" asked Rose, in a tone which implied that he would not be
surprised if Key suggested the South Sea Islands.

"What you say we see if we can getta holda some liquor?" Prohibition
was not yet. The ginger in the suggestion was caused by the law
forbidding the selling of liquor to soldiers.

Rose agreed enthusiastically.

"I got an idea," continued Key, after a moment's thought, "I got a
brother somewhere."

"In New York?"

"Yeah. He's an old fella." He meant that he was an elder brother.
"He's a waiter in a hash joint."

"Maybe he can get us some."