“That’s the stuff!” he cried. “It takes men to drink fire-water. It’s not pap for babies. I know a chap who thinks he is a man, and who is proud because he doesn’t drink. Bah! he makes me sick. I’d like to fill him to the chin. I’d like to put him under the table. Have another one on me, boys! Set ’em up, Johnnie, old man—set ’em up!”
“You’re all right, my hearty!” huskily cried one of the sailors, reeling up and slapping Chet on the shoulder.
“Look here, my friend,” said Chet, bracing with his feet wide apart and giving the sailor a savage look, “don’t get so free with me. I will treat you all right, but keep your distance. I am Chester Arlington! I am the son of D. Roscoe Arlington. My mother’s yacht lies off Gibb’s wharf.”
“You’re all right,” reiterated the sailor. “’Scuse me. Didn’t mean anything particular. You spend your money.”
“You bet your life I do! I know how to spend it. I know how to live while I live. I don’t dry up and die, and think I am still living. Say, Johnnie, this is awful booze. Haven’t you anything better?”
“This is good enough for my customers,” answered the bartender. “They don’t kick. You claim to be a man, and this is the sort of stuff men drink.”
“All right; I can drink as much as anybody else.”
He dashed off the vile stuff that was provided, then crossed the door toward the window, where two or three men were sitting at a table.
Already Dick had recognized one face at the table as that of Tom Moran.
“Hello, boys!” said Chet, as he dropped on a chair. “What’s the matter with me? I’m all right! Who said I was intoxicated?”