‘A gallon,’ said the station-keeper; ‘new in yesterday. Like a tot?’
‘No.’
The word was snapped out savagely, and the station-keeper said ‘Oh!’ like an astonished echo.
‘It’s not at all unlikely that I may ask you for some,’ the camper-out went on.
‘You’re sweetly welcome,’ said the other; but he was waved down by an impatient gesture.
‘It’s not at all unlikely that I may come and beg for it. You’re not to give me any. You understand?’ The station-keeper stared in the dusk, but made no answer or sign of answer. ‘It’s not at all unlikely that I may come and try to persuade you that this was a joke, and that I didn’t mean it. I may offer you ten dollars for a drink—twenty, thirty, a hundred. I’m not to have it. And if you allow yourself to be persuaded to give me so much as one teaspoonful, no matter when or why, I’ll shoot you next day, so sure as I am a living sinner.’
‘Oh, you will, will you?
‘I will, by God!’
‘That’s all right,’ said the station-keeper. ‘You’re a very pretty neighbour, you are, by George!’
‘I am,’ the other man assented—‘a very pretty neighbour.’