“Sure you don’t,” Routt agreed. “You’re no toper. Never were. Any one likes to drink for the sake of being a good fellow. That’s all I drink for.” He finished the glass, poured in a little more whisky. “Long as I’m sure I can stop when I want to, the way you have done, I go ahead and drink whenever I feel like it.”
Wint nodded. Routt looked at him with a curious intentness. “Another glass here, if you’d like,” he said.
“I guess not.”
Routt laughed. “All right. You know best. If you can’t let it alone when you get started—”
“Oh, I can take a drink and quit.”
“Want one?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
Routt chuckled. “Funny to see you afraid of anything,” he said. “I never expected to see it.”
Wint got up abruptly. The old Wint would have reached for the bottle; this was the new Wint’s impulse. But he fought it down, steadied his voice. “Jack,” he said, a little huskily, “you’re a friend of mine. I don’t want to drink, never. Don’t offer it to me. Some day I might accept. Don’t ever offer me a drink, Jack. Please.”
Routt was ashamed of himself, and angry at Wint for making him ashamed. “Hell, all right,” he said, and dropped the bottle into its place. “Come on, let’s take the air.”