The girl came prancing up beside him. "You look like a good guy," she commented. "Here."
He took the bottle from her; it was a pocket-sized half-pint of whiskey. It was like a gift from God. He took two measured swallows and put the cap back on; he could feel it biting in his throat, invading the back of his nose, spreading warmly through his chest.
"God bless you," he told the girl sincerely.
"Sure. But don't tell on Charley, will you? I knew he had it, but if Mrs. Koontz ever finds out she'll pulverize him." He started to hand the bottle back to her. "No, you keep it. You might want some more, and if Charley gets his hands on it again, good-by whiskey."
"Thanks." He slipped it into his pocket; then, remembering the rest of the party, turned and glanced at them. McCue was plodding along head down; Chesbro was glaring at him; Mrs. Goudeket was watching but she caught his eye, smiled faintly and shook her head. Good enough, thought Mickey Groff; we'll save what's left. He tried to remember what the current position was on giving liquor to old men dying of pneumonia. If it looks bad enough, he decided, we'll try giving him a shot; otherwise better not.
The girl was chattering: "Won't the old lady plotz when she hears about all this? That joker on the horse back there says he thinks the whole town's washed away."
"I doubt it."
The girl was disappointed. "Well," she said, "I bet there's going to be plenty of excitement in Hebertown, anyway. I always wanted to be a nurse—you know, not in a hospital, a Red Cross nurse or something like that, going away in the wars and all like that. My sister was a nurse's aide, only they wouldn't let me in because I was too young."
"Eh? Nurse?" He glanced at her quickly. "Know anything about pneumonia cases?"
"Sure. Penicillin, keep them warm, bed rest—"