"And leaves it in ruins," Toffee agreed. "They must cook this stuff up in old lye vats."
"Keep drinking," Marc whispered urgently. "And look happy."
"Okay," Toffee said grimly. "I'll die with a smile on my face, but it'll be the lie of the century." She lifted the bottle gamely and drank. "Oh, boy!" she rasped through drawn lips, "this whiskey is the answer to a drunkard's prayer."
Marc drank dutifully in turn. "You said it!" he announced, tears streaming from his eyes. "It's delicious!"
"I could go on drinking it forever," Toffee wheezed, taking another gulp and clutching her throat. "It's so smooth!"
"Makes you want more and more," Marc said, shaking his head to clear it after a third libation. "It gives you a real boost."
"Let's not carry it too far," Toffee whispered. "If I drink any more of this mange medicine I won't be able to hit the barnside of a broad."
"Broadside of a barn," Marc corrected her weakly. "But you're right. We'd better make the pitch while we're still conscious."
Toffee nodded and made a great show of registering happy inspiration. "Say," she cried, "you know who would just love this whiskey?"
"No," Marc replied like the second part in a minstrel skit. "Who?"