"What's this? What's this?" he exclaimed, half in jest, half in earnest, while his eyes flashed swiftly to the invoice.
Hector read and signed the piece of paper, which told him that Mr. John Adair, of Blenheim County, Ont., had recently shipped to him through Weatherton's chain of stores, evidently as a Christmas gift, one case of Scotch whiskey.
"Well, I'm shot!" Welland remarked. "I'll come an' see you when you've opened it, Hec'. How'll you get it into barracks?"
The last demand, with its veiled insinuation, irritated Hector. But he snubbed Welland by showing no concern.
"Bring it to my quarters next time you're over that way, Randall," he told the store-keeper.
"You're on, Sergeant," Randall leered, rolling his bleary eyes. "An' I hope to drink your health."
"You'll do it in water, then," Hector said quietly. "This whiskey goes to Mother Earth and no-one else."
"Wha-a-t?" Welland cried, amazed. "You're not—?"
"Yes, I am." Hector gathered up his whip and gloves. "I'm going to spill the lot of it, in Randall's presence, too. Nobody's going to say I'm a wholesale drinker myself and down on everyone else drinking."
"But Hec'! It came in a perfectly honest, legal way—"