"Just so! But time she gets low, we'll be makin' more ag'in. Time Drew's gone and we get water runnin' from Sulphur Spring ag'in."
"And I'm wantin' my profit from what we could sell," Pence added, unmollified. "I got no money, and won't have none till killin' time, 'less the still's runnin'. 'Tain't worryin' you none. You got all you want without makin' monkey rum. But it ain't like that with me. Why, we was makin' five gallon a day—at twenty-five bucks a gallon! And now nary a drop. I need the money."
"Well, Obed, they's money all about ye," the old man boomed. "And they's things that can be turned into money layin' 'round loose everywhere."
"And there's a county jail, too!" snapped Pence.
"And also federal prisons," Adam added, nodding toward the still and the crude fermentation vats.
"Rats! Pro'bition sneaks ain't got me scared! But bustin' into somebody's store's a different matter. And while we're talkin' about it, Old Man, I don't see as you're so keen for a little job like that as you was some months ago."
"Gettin' old, Obed—gettin' old, as the fella says. Squirt another shot into her, Chuck." He passed his glass again. "I'll leave all that to you kids in future, I'm thinkin'."
"But take your share, o' course," sneered Pence.
"Oh, I reckon not, Obed—I reckon not. I got enough to die on—that's all I need. Just putter 'round with a few critters for my remainin' years, then turn up my toes peaceful-like. I'm gettin' old, Obed—just so!"
There was another prolonged, strained silence. Pence emptied his glass twice while it lasted, and his Dutch courage grew apace.