Duffy found a big earthenware bottle of apple-jack after a hunt round. He found two glasses and came back into the sitting-room. He tilled both glasses and gave her one. “Put it down,” he said. “You need it.”
He drained his glass. The apple-jack went down his throat and then when it reached his stomach it exploded. He had to hold on to the table while his head was spinning, and he caught his breath. Just for a moment, he thought he was going to die, then all of a sudden he felt fine.
He looked at the bottle in amazement. “That’s panther’s spit okay,” he said.
He filled up his glass again, but this time he was more cautious. He did it in three. He looked at her with a little squint. “Sister,” he said, “you’re coming home with me. This spot ain’t going to be healthy any more.”
The apple-jack was bringing her round. He could see the faint colour coming back to her face. Again she touched her bruised neck. “I can’t do that,” she said.
Duffy went over to her. “Pack a bag and get going,” he said; “you gotta make it fast. That bird might come back again.”
Her eyes widened with fear and she got up quickly. He had to help her to the door, her legs were weak. Then, when he saw she could make it, he left her to go upstairs. He went back and gave himself another drink.
By the time she had come down again, he was half cocked. He waved the bottle at her. “This is the best drop of phlegm-cutter I’ve run into for some time.”
She stood hesitating on the bottom stair. “Will you get me a taxi?” she said. “I’ll go to some hotel.”
Duffy went over and took her bag. “You’re coming home with me,” he said. “For the love of Mike, don’t argue.”