"What's the matter?" Gilbert said. And he handed him the water-bottle.
"It's poison!" Pell cried. And as if he really believed it, and as though water were an antidote, he grabbed the water-bottle and drank from it swiftly and loudly. It was horrible the way he guzzled the liquid down. An animal would have done better.
"The Mexicans like their liquor strong," young Jones explained. "That's what's the matter with the cook."
Lucia was puzzled. "What do you mean?" she asked.
"Simply that he's been imbibing again. That's why dinner is so late. But we're getting used to it. There is nothing to do but stand it."
"Drunk?" Pell asked.
"Quite," answered Gilbert.
"Well, I don't know as you can blame him," Pell excused. "I'd be drunk too if I had to live here. What are you going to do about it?" He hung the water-bottle in its place on the peg.
"Red's trying to sober him up," Gilbert said.
They had had enough of the cook, Pell decided within himself. Dinner was inevitably late, and that was all there was about it. So he changed the subject abruptly.