“No,” said Merry. “We have had quite enough to drink. I make a practice of stopping when I have enough. I always order ginger ale or sarsaparilla at that stage.”
“I would meself,” grinned Galway, looking very hideous with his bruised face and split lip; “but w’en I have enough I can’t say sarsaparilla.”
In vain Frank and Bart were urged to drink something stronger; they persisted in their determination to take nothing but ginger ale, and ginger ale they drank.
On the other hand, although they already had too much, Fillmore and Hackett again drank whisky.
A short time after that both these fellows were in a wretched condition. They insisted on returning home, and Merry, thinking the open air would do them good, besides wishing to get them away from the road house, ordered the team hitched up.
It was necessary to lift Fillmore and Hackett into the carriage. Hodge looked after one, while Frank took care of the other.
It happened that neither chap betrayed himself directly, although both mumbled things which were suggestive of their feelings over the outcome of the encounter.
“Shay!” Fillmore finally exclaimed, seizing Frank’s arm and looking into his face wonderingly; “shay, Merriwell, how’d ju do it?”
“Do what—defeat Galway?”
“No; how’d ju drink all that gin an’ keep shober? Tha’s what puzzlesh me. Musht be reg’ler tank, Mer’well.”