"What's the matter with letting me out of here for a while? A few games of checkers wouldn't do any harm—help pass the time."
"Help pass—! Say, where do you think you are? Why don't you ask me to take you to the movies? Mebbe you'd like me to send for Drusilla so's we could have a dance? Want me to lose my job, huh?"
"Who's going to know anything about it except us? Slip out and get a board—and a couple of glasses!"
"Glasses? What kind of glasses?"
"Whisky glasses."
Moody started. He looked keenly at his prisoner. Slowly, a warm light stole into his eye, he moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue.
"Quit your kiddin'!"
"I'm not kidding—look here!"
Maxon knew his man. Satisfied that he had Moody quivering with anticipation, he stepped to his cot, produced the flat bottle and shook it invitingly. The rich gurgle was music to the jailer's ear. A more hard-boiled, professional warder would have followed just one course with decision and dispatch, to Moody's credit be it said, it did not once occur to him that he might safely confiscate the treasure and dedicate it to his own delight.
"I'll go after those glasses," he said promptly. "Sure it's good stuff, Charlie?"