“I was wondering,” gasped Reivers in assumed exhaustion. “I was wondering how much farther you were going before you opened a bottle.”
“Have your squaws get out tuh grub,” ordered Moir, jamming down the cork. “And now you ‘n’ me, wilt see who drinks t’other off his feet.”
For reply Reivers promptly gulped down a drink that would have strangled most men.
“Good enough,” admitted Moir. “Here’s better, though.” And he instantly improved on Reivers’ record.
The first bottle was soon emptied—a quart of raw, fiery hooch—and a second instantly broached.
The food was forgotten by Moir; the women were forgotten. His primitive mind was obsessed with the idea of pouring more burning poison down his throat than this broken-down waster who dared to drink up to him. Bolt upright he sat, laughing and singing, never taking his eyes off Reivers, while drink after drink disappeared down their throats.
No movement of Reivers escaped Moir’s vigilant watch for signs of weakness. As Reivers gave no apparent sign of toppling over he grew enraged.
“Hell’s fire! Wilt sit here till daylight if thou wilt,” he roared. “Drink on there! ’Tis thy turn.”
Tillie and Neopa got food ready from the grub-bag and sat waiting patiently; the dogs ceased moving, bedded down in the snow and went to sleep; and still the contest went on.
Finally Reivers discerned the slight thickening of speech and the glassy stare in his opponent’s eyes that he had been waiting for. Then, and not until then, did he begin to betray apparent signs of failing.