"What did you say?" he inquired, fencing for time.
"Has she always been a steady drinker, like the old man?"
Charlie was a gentleman. He sighed.
"I guess it's time to change the subject," he said. "The only way you could get a spoonful of whiskey down that old woman would be to chloroform her. If I'm any good at guessin', she'll outlive the old man by ten years,—so what's the sense of me preachin' to you about the life preserving virtues of booze? Oh, Lordy! There's another of my best arguments knocked galley-west. It's no use. I've been playing old man Nichols for nearly fifteen years as a bright and shining light, and he turns out to be nothing but a busted flush. She's had eleven children and he's never had anything worse than a headache, and, by gosh, he's hangin' onto her with both hands for support to keep his other foot from slippin' into the grave. But,"—and here his face brightened suddenly,—"there's one thing to be said, Court. She didn't consult any darned fool doctor about it."
Courtney was ashamed of his churlishness toward this good-natured little man.
"Say no more, Charlie. I'll break my rule this once if it will make you feel any better. One little drink, that's all,—in spite of the doctor. He's a long way off, and I daresay he'll never know the difference. Lead the way, old chap. Anything to cheer up a disconsolate comrade."
A few minutes later they were in Webster's room, second floor back. The highly gratified host had lighted the kerosene lamp on the table in the centre of the room, and pulled down the window shades. Then, putting his fingers to his lips to enjoin silence, he tip-toed to the door and threw it open suddenly. After peering into the hall and listening intently for a moment, he cautiously closed it again.
"All's well, as the watchman says at midnight," he remarked, as he drew his key ring from his hip pocket and selected a key with unerring precision from the extensive assortment. "I always do that," he added. "I don't suppose it was necessary tonight, because Angie Miller has got Hatch where he can't possibly escape. Long as she knows where he is, she don't do much snooping. She used to be the same way with me,—and Doc, too, for that matter. Poor Hatch,—setting down there in the parlour,—listening to her talk about birds and flowers and trying to help her guess what she's going to give him for next Christmas. It's hell to be a bachelor, Court."
He unlocked a trunk in the corner of the room, and after lifting out two trays produced a half empty whiskey bottle.
"I had a dozen of these to begin with," said he, holding the bottle up to the light. "Dollar sixty a quart. Quite a nifty little stock, eh?"