“Wet, ain’t it?” he observed.
“Rain is usually wet,” I informed him, with unnecessary explicitness.
“Yes, I reckon ’tis. Say, that’s my bottle you’ve got in your hands.”
“So I supposed.”
“You’re welcome to the whiskey—I see it’s gone, and ’tis a good thing to take off a chill—when a body gets wet—but I’d like the bottle again.”
“I am going to put the bottle and the revolver and the belt in the hollow of the big pine near the lower crossing. You can get them there.”
“Oh, ain’t you goin’ t’ give ’em to me now?”
“No, I am not.”
“’Fraid of me, I reckon.”