“Hah!” exclaimed the Mephistopheles of the party; “that’s right. Give him one if he moves.”
This to his bearded companion, who had drawn a life-preserver similar to that his companion had used, as he bent over the sleeping man.
“He has had a dose,” was whispered back. “You can smell his breath.”
“Brandy. All right!” cried the youngest of the three, catching up the decanter, smelling it, tasting it with a loud smack of the lips, and pouring out a goodly portion in the empty glass, he handed it to his first companion. “Here, Harry.”
“Sure it’s all right?” was whispered back.
“Swear it. Now, Rogers.”
“Here’s mine,” said the man, with a grin. “Hot with. Quick, lads!”
“Don’t touch that,” was on the younger man’s lips; but his companion raised the glass with a laugh, and as he followed his example by putting the decanter to his mouth, the doctor’s assailant literally poured the contents of the tumbler down his throat, and then stood still, put the glass back on the table, gasping and staring straight before him.
His companions were not heeding him, for each drank eagerly of the brandy, and were setting down the decanter and glass, when the younger man spoke:
“Why, Rogers, old chap!”