Unsuspicious as any innocent, Shea took the proffered glass and held it to his nose. A tremor ran through him—an uncontrollable shiver that sent fever into his eyes. He lowered the glass slightly and forced a ghastly smile. Already defeat had engulfed him.
“Friend, I am sorry thus to disappoint you, but I have sworn that never——”
“Shucks!” Aimes grinned and held up his own glass. To meet it, that of Shea again came within sniffing distance. “Just one between business acquaintances, Mr. Shea. It’s the finest licker ever got to this city! Absolutely twenty year old, partner. One little snifter now—don’t it smell good? The real thing, the real thing!”
Thady Shea’s entire system was impregnated by that whiff. His big fingers closed upon the little glass with a convulsive contraction.
“One, sir, and one only!” he declaimed. “To the dead god Bacchus, all hail!”
He tossed down the drink and smacked his lips.
It was upon a Saturday evening that these things happened. That smell had done the business for Thady Shea; that raw odour of whiskey, which in a flash had permeated to the very deeps of his being with its awful lure. No guile, no argument could have forced him to drink, but that sniff had ruined him utterly.
Twenty minutes later, in maudlin confidence, he was relating to Ben Aimes how two miners of his acquaintance had driven several hundred miles in deadly fear of being hoisted by dynamite at every jolt.
Shea mentioned no names. Drunk or not, he knew subconsciously that he must mention no names. Also subconsciously, he knew that he must hang on to his axe helve or Mrs. Crump would be much disappointed in him. So he was still hanging on to it when, after a parting drink, he was thrust forth into the cold night air. That parting drink had been soggy with opiates.
Ben Aimes went to the telephone and called up the sheriff at Silver City.