“Don’t care if I do,” he answered, taking one and brightening.
The trader drew the cork and passed the bottle to his companion, who took it with sundry little chuckles of satisfaction, and after several long approving sniffs, poured out a goodly potation, which he tossed off with a whimsical wink and a curt nod. Then his hand went quickly to his mouth, and for a fleeting second his face assumed a most unpleasant expression, for the raw spirits stung his lips, which were cut and bruised by contact with the trader’s fist.
The look, however, passed unobserved by Roy, who had taken the bottle and was helping himself moderately.
“Good stuff,” sighed Broom, presently, gazing affectionately into his empty mug.
“Yes, and very precious in these parts,” said Roy. “I got only one case last fall; but I’ve managed to make it hold out pretty well.”
“You certainly have,” returned Broom, putting up his mug with apparent reluctance.
Then the two men settled themselves in their chairs and blew more clouds of smoke. Broom made free with the box of cigars and sprawled himself out comfortably, his face wearing an expression which indicated that he was highly satisfied with himself.
Suddenly he started chuckling to himself.
“What’s the joke,” inquired Roy.
“Oh, I was thinking of a fellow on the whaler,” replied Broom, removing the cigar from his mouth and gazing meditatively at the burning tip. “He was hammering a dog one day when the skipper interposed. ‘You seem to have a spite against that dog,’ said the skipper. ‘No, I ain’t got no grudge against the dog,’ said the fellow, ‘I’m just showing my author-i-ity.’”