Pomp reached down behind the flour bin and brought forth from the darkness a black bottle.
The label on it read:
Good Bourbon Whisky.
Now everybody knows the Irishman’s weakness; the Englishman imbibes ale, the German drinks beer, the Frenchman sips wine, the American brandy, but the true bred Celt despises all of these, and turns to whisky.
Pomp poured a good dose of the pure article into a small flask; then he did something else.
CHAPTER IV.
A CATASTROPHE.
The two were warm friends, but ever addicted to the playing of jokes upon each other. Sometimes one had the better of it, and sometimes the other.
Pomp saw what he believed an elegant opportunity to square some past grievances with his friend.
“Golly, I done fix dat chile!” he chuckled. “He laike whisky, do he? Massy Lordy, I gib him de Keeley Cure!”
With which, still chuckling, he reached up and took down a small bag of ground red dust and seeds, and which was marked “Ground Red Peppers.”