“My friend,” he said, “won’t you drink with me? I hate to drink alone.”
“You’re very polite, stranger, but I—hic—I guess I’m about full.”
“O, you can stand another glass, I am sure.”
“Well, I don’t mind,” hiccoughed the countryman. “You’re a—gen—gentleman.”
“So are you,” said Barclay, with a wink at the barkeeper. “What’ll you have?”
The countryman expressed a wish for whisky straight, and was served with a glass.
Then the two sat down, and engaged in conversation. It was evident from the thick utterance of the gentleman of the rural districts, that he was no longer master of himself.
“By the way,” said Barclay, carelessly, “will you do me a favor?”
“I can’t lend you any money,” answered the other, with a remnant of prudence. “I promised my wife I wouldn’t.”