“He isn’t a horse,” said Dolly. “He’s a submarine diver, or a fish.”
“Drink up, boys,” said Steve, impatiently. “You’re as slow between drinks as a camel.”
“What is it?” asked the barkeeper.
“Whisky,” cried Steve. “No beer this time, boss. No need to irrigate just now.”
So the whisky bottle was put on the bar, and Steve poured himself a stiff dose, and the others took moderate ones, for it was barely past breakfast time yet, and, as Darby put it, there was no need to get drunk in a hurry when they’d all day and night to it.
“Go on, go on,” said Steve. “You can get drunk and sober and drunk again. It’ll take me all my time to get once drunk. Hand us that bottle out again, boss,” and he threw the silver on the bar.
So when Dan came along early in the forenoon, Darby and Dolly Grey were both in a highly convivial stage, while Steve was drinking huge doses of spirit, with his eyes glittering and his hand shaking, but his voice as coldly clear and his legs as firm as if he had drunk nothing but water.
“Come on, Dan, and have a drink,” said Steve, gaily. “That bottle, boss. Here you are, Dan, though I’m sorry to say you won’t find much bite in this stuff. It’s like penny pop.”
“So’s sulphuric acid thin,” said Dan, helping himself liberally to water. “Your health, boys.... An’ now, Steve, I’ve a message for you from both the wimmin folk, to ask you to come up to the house.”
“What’s that?” said Steve, suspiciously. “Who sent the message?”