"White lightnin'," he replied, carefully stowing it away in a pocket I could not see.
I knew then. It was moonshine whiskey.
Suddenly his cadaverousness struck me afresh.
"Have you had supper—or dinner—or breakfast?" I demanded, with such vim that he answered hurriedly:
"Naw; neither; nothin'."
The grammar was bad, but the meaning was good.
"Then let's eat—you and I—and become acquainted."
I did not tell him my supper was over, though this bit of tact was doubtless unnecessary. Neither did I invite him indoors. While it is true I had really warmed to his outcast condition, the sentiment did not embrace the hospitality of my roof. I felt a desire to cultivate him, but the acquaintance must grow in the open.
He grinned appreciatively at my suggestion, and I saw him lick his lips surreptitiously, after the manner of a starved animal which smells food.
"Get busy about a fire, and I'll find the grub," I continued, not waiting for the assent which I knew he would give.