“It’s a bad thing for a son to keep anything from his mother.”
“Got to! My life’s always in danger.” Abie reached into his hip-pocket, brought out the half-pint of whisky, and pulled the cork with his teeth.
“Have some?”
Holy Joe moistened his straight lips. Abie could not see the preacher’s expression on account of the darkness. A light smacking indicated that the bait was acceptable. Holy Joe had been seen in too many dives and saloons along the coast of Barbary to refuse a drink.
“With my blessing,” said the preacher, handing back the flask.
Abie pretended to take an enormous swallow. He pressed his tongue over the mouth of the bottle. Even then he tasted the bitterness of the chloral-hydrate and morphia. He wondered how Holy Joe stood the decoction. The preacher commenced swaying on the thwart. He rocked the small boat slightly. Hansen glanced at him.
“Abie,” said Holy Joe in a low voice, “I’m not pleased with that whisky.”
“Oh, it’s all right, preacher. You know we make it in the cellar. We got a private still. You see, me being a government man allows us to do it.”
“It was bitter, Abie.”
The crimp realized that he would have to be careful if he wanted to deliver Captain Gully’s last man. Holy Joe was apparently going under. There was a quarter-knot to be rowed before the Bowhead could be boarded.