Wentworth poured out a small quantity of whisky and drank it down. He poured out a less quantity for Gerald, but the boy merely touched his lips to the glass.
“So you say Jake Amsden has not been here?” repeated Wentworth in a loud voice.
“No, stranger, no, on my word he hasn’t,” answered Peter earnestly. But he was immediately put to confusion by a voice from behind the bar; a voice interrupted by hiccoughs: “Who’s callin’ me? Is it you, Pete?”
“Come out here, Jake,” said Wentworth, showing no surprise. “Come out here, and have a drink with your friends.”
The invitation was accepted. Jake, who was lying behind the counter half stupefied, got up with some difficulty, and presented himself to the company a by no means attractive figure. His clothes were even more soiled than usual by contact with a floor that was seldom swept.
Wentworth poured out a glass of whisky and handed it to the inebriate, who gulped it down.
“Now you drink with me!” stuttered Jake, who was too befuddled to recognize the man who had treated him.
“All right, Jake, old boy!” said Wentworth with assumed hilarity.
He poured out for himself a teaspoonful of whisky, but did not replenish Gerald’s glass, as Amsden was not likely to notice the omission.