Tears came into Courtney's eyes as he drained the last drop of the fiery liquid. A shudder distorted his face.
"Pretty hot stuff, eh?" observed Charlie sympathetically.
Courtney's reply was a nod of the head, speech being denied him.
"Don't try to talk yet," said Charlie, as if admonishing a child who has choked on a swallow of water. "Anyhow," he went on quaintly, after a moment, "it makes you forget all about your toothache, don't it?"
The other cleared his throat raucously. "Now I know why the redskins call it fire water," said he.
"Have another?"
"Not on your life," exclaimed the New Yorker. "Put it back in the trunk,—and lock it up!"
"No sooner said than done," said Charlie amicably. "Now I'll pull up the shades and let in a little of our well-known hoosier atmosphere,—and some real moonshine. Hello! There go Hatch and Angie, out for a stroll. Yep! She's got him headed toward Foster's soda water joint. I'll bet every tooth in his head is achin'."
"How long have you been running the grain elevator, Charlie?"
"Ever since David Windom built it, back in 1897,—twenty-two years. I took a few months off in '98, expecting to see something of Cuba, but the darned Spaniards surrendered when they heard I was on the way, so I never got any farther than Indianapolis. Twenty-two years. That's almost as long as Alix Crown has lived altogether."