“Don’t ungag him,” said the one they called John hastily. “One yip, and somebody would be up here.”
“That’s not what he wants,” said the other, watching O’Brien. “The rope hurts him.”
“What if it does?” demanded John. “It won’t hurt him any after three o’clock. Leave him alone!”
“I am going to loosen that rope,” said the other. “If I was going to die at three I would just as soon take a little comfort while I waited.”
“Well, don’t take the gag out,” counseled John. “Here, I will fix him.” He loosened the cord that held O’Brien’s hands tightly bound behind his back, bent them in front of him and fastened them in such a way that they were free unless he tried to reach his face. He could not quite touch the gag.
“Come on, let’s have a drink,” said the man who had advised it before.
“You heard!” warned John.
“I don’t care what I heard!” said the man, almost whining. “I want a drink and I am going to have a drink! Didn’t Smith tell us to put the empty bottle in his pocket?” He uncorked the bottle and gave it a little shake. The fumes were strong.
O’Brien, hoping, praying, watching, could see that the men, used to stiffening their grit with liquor, smelled the fiery stuff and weakened. Hoping, praying, watching, yet seemingly with nothing in his eyes but apprehension, O’Brien watched the three draw up to the table and commence to smoke. In the center between them the bottle sat, its cork out and the empty glass beside it.
“Well, if you are going to disobey orders,” said John suddenly, “it is as well that we should be on the same boat. Are there any more glasses?”