“But you’ve got to drink,” hiccoughed his new acquaintance.
In reply Grant tried to tear himself away, but he could not release the strong grip the man had on his coat-sleeve.
“Come along, boy; it’s no use. Do you want to insult me?”
“No, I don’t,” said Grant; “but I never drink.”
“Are you a temperance sneak?” was the next question. “Don’t make no difference. When Bill Turner wants you to drink, you must drink—or fight. Want to fight?”
“No.”
“Then come in.”
Against his will Grant was dragged into the saloon, where half a dozen fellows were leaning against the bar.
CHAPTER XVII.
AN UNPLEASANT ADVENTURE.
“Couple of whiskeys—straight—for me and the kid,” ordered Grant’s companion, as he came to a standstill in front of the bar.