“They’re getting some grub ready,” replied Reivers fawningly. “They’ll be here in a minute. Let’s have a drink out of that bottle, mister. That’s the stuff.”
He tipped the bottle to his lips and lowered the burning liquor in a fashion that made even Moir open his eyes in admiration.
“Takest a man-sized nip for a broken waster, sonny,” he chuckled, and measuring with his fingers on the bottle a drink larger than Reivers’ he tossed it gurgling down his hairy throat. Reivers took the bottle from his hand.
“I always take an eye-opener before my real drink,” said Reivers, and, measuring off twice the amount that Moir had taken, he drank it off like so much water.
The fiercest liquor made was to Reivers only a mild stimulant. On his abnormal organisation it merely had the effect of intensifying his characteristics. When he wished to drink whisky he drank—out of full-sized water tumblers. When he did not wish to drink he put liquor from him with contempt. Now he handed the bottle back to Moir. The latter looked at him and at the bottle, a trifle puzzled but not dismayed. Reivers had apparently unconsciously passed the challenge to him, and it was not in his nature to play second to any man in a drinking bout.
“Shouldst have taken all thee wanted that time, sonny,” said Moir, and finished the bottle.
“No more?” muttered Reivers vacantly.
“Gallons!” replied Moir. “Whisky enough to drown you dead—if your women satisfy.”
“Look at them,” said Reivers as the door-flap was flung back. “Here they are.”
Tillie came in first. She was dressed in white buckskin, her hair hanging in two thick braids down her shoulders. Neopa followed, and the wistfulness that had come into her face from thinking of Nawa made her the more interesting in Shanty Moir’s eyes.