Mrs. Blair looked at him with pity, but shook her head.
“I’ve been here seven years,” she said to Patience, “and the ladies have yet to find one fault with me. I don’t dare give it to him. Besides, I don’t believe in it. How can what’s killing him cure him? And it’s a sin. Even if the ladies excused me—which they wouldn’t—I’d never forgive myself.”
“I’ll take the responsibility,” said Patience. “I believe that man will die if he doesn’t have whisky.”
The man groaned and tossed his arms. “Oh, my God!” he cried.
Mrs. Blair shuddered. “Oh, I don’t know, miss. If you will take the responsibility—I can’t give it to him—where could you get it?”
“At a drug store.”
“They won’t sell it to you—we’ve got a law passed, you know.”
“Then I’ll go to a saloon.”
“Oh, my! my!” cried Mrs. Blair, “you’d never do that?”
“The man is in agony. Can’t you see? I’m going this minute.”