“It’s time we were about our business,” growled Jack.
“It’s struck twelve.”
“All right!” responded Hogan, who began to feel nervous, now that the crisis was at hand.
“Don’t sit rubbing your eyes, man, but get up.”
“Haven’t you got a drop of something to brace me up?” asked Hogan nervously.
“What are you scared of, pard?” asked Rafferty contemptuously.
“Nothing,” answered Hogan, “but I feel dry.”
“All right. A drop of something will warm us both up.”
Jack went behind the counter, and, selecting a bottle of rot-gut whisky, poured out a stiff glassful apiece.
“Drink it, pard,” he said.