"Go on and take it," Morganson insisted.
The barkeeper held the sack mouth downward over the scales and shook it, and a few flakes of gold dust fell out. Morganson took the sack from him, turned it inside out, and dusted it carefully.
"I thought there was half-a-dollar in it," he said.
"Not quite," answered the other, "but near enough. I'll get it back with the down weight on the next comer."
Morganson shyly poured the whisky into the glass, partly filling it.
"Go on, make it a man's drink," the barkeeper encouraged.
Morganson tilted the bottle and filled the glass to the brim. He drank the liquor slowly, pleasuring in the fire of it that bit his tongue, sank hotly down his throat, and with warm, gentle caresses permeated his stomach.
"Scurvy, eh?" the barkeeper asked.
"A touch of it," he answered. "But I haven't begun to swell yet. Maybe I can get to Dyea and fresh vegetables, and beat it out."
"Kind of all in, I'd say," the other laughed sympathetically. "No dogs, no money, and the scurvy. I'd try spruce tea if I was you."