“Well, you witch! Where did you dig up that?”
“That’s one of the questions you better not ask round here,” she parried. “Jest hold up his head while I give him a good snort.”
Smiling grimly, he raised the lad’s head and opened his lax mouth while she pulled the corn-cob plug. Deftly she put the nozzle to that mouth and poured the “snort.” The aptness of the word was speedily demonstrated by the uncouth noise which erupted from Steve.
His eyes flew open, rolled, blinked. He coughed, sprayed a mouthful of the colorless but powerful liquor on his helpers, gasped, and struggled up as if kicked out of sleep. Wildly he stared at the two faces so near his. Then, as the girl put the jug again to his mouth, he grabbed it with both hands and gulped thirstily. When he lowered the vessel he licked his lips, and across them flitted a faint grin.
“Gawd, am I dead or dreamin’?” he breathed hoarsely. “Marry! Be ye there? An’ this here licker—I’m a dunkey if ’tain’t real! Who—who’s this feller?”
His brown eyes glared into the cool blue ones. Involuntarily his right hand gripped the jug-handle as if it were a gun-stock. His gaunt face tightened into a menacing mask. He wavered like a mortally wounded wildcat gathering its last strength to spring.
“I’m all right, Steve,” soothed Douglas. “I’m not after you. You’re safe, and this is Marry, and that’s real stuff in the jug. Calm down.”
Under the steadying influence of the quiet tone the youth relaxed a little. Yet his lined mouth remained set as he demanded: “Who shot at me?”
“Nobody,” Douglas told him. “My gun exploded accidentally. I didn’t even see you. You fell and cracked your head.”
The boy still glowered suspiciously, but when Marion spoke his gaze shifted to her.