They were all inside now and the druggist locked the door again. Behind the stove, in the corner, sat Mr. Cross Moore, and he did not say a word.
"You can see yourself, Mr. Massey," urged Frank Bowman, helping Drugg into a chair, "that this is no ordinary drunk."
"No," Massey said reflectively, and now looked with some pity at the helpless man. "Alcohol never did exhilarate Hopewell. It just dopes him. It does some folks. And it doesn't take much to do it."
"Then Hopewell Drugg has been in the habit of drinking?" asked Bowman, in surprise. "You have seen him this way before?"
"No, he hasn't. Never mind what these chattering old women in town say about him now. I never saw him this way but once before. That was when he had been given some brandy. 'Member that time, Cross, when we all went fishin' down to Pine Cove? Gosh! Must have been all of twenty years ago."
All that Mr. Cross Moore emitted was a grunt, but he nodded.
"Hopewell cut himself—'bad—on a rusty bailer. He fell on it and liked ter bled to death. You know, Cross, we gave him brandy and he was dead to the world for hours."
"Yes," said Mr. Moore. "What did he want to drink now for?"
"I do not believe he knowingly took anything intoxicating," Janice said earnestly. "They have been playing tricks down there at the tavern on him."
"Tricks?" repeated Mr. Moore curiously.