The witness virtuously assented.
“And why shouldn’t you be,” said the crafty Harshaw, “when we all know there is no still but the God-fearing bonded still in the whole country! Look at the jury, and tell them that you were not drinking that night.”
The unfortunate witness faltered that he had been drinking some.
“You had!” exclaimed Harshaw, with the accents of surprise. “And yet you say, on oath, that you were sober. Now what do you call sober? We must inquire into this. What do you take? I wish I could put that question as it should be between gentlemen, but”—he waved his fat hand—“some other day.”
The witness stared dumbly at him, and the crowd grinned.
“Let me put the question in another form. How much of the reverend stuff is enough to settle you? A pint?”
The witness gallantly declared that he could stand a pint.
“A jugful?”
“Oh, naw, sir,”—meaning a jugful would not be necessary.
In the staccato of affected amaze, “Barrelful!”