Then he picked up the flask and sprang up the stairs. Barney took it from his hand eagerly.
“Begorra, it’s a gintlemon yez are!” cried Barney, “yez know well enuff phwat I need.”
With which the Celt threw the flask to his lips.
Pomp stood eagerly waiting for the explosion. Gurgle, gurgle went the liquor down his throat.
The darky stared.
Could he believe his senses?
The Celt slowly and deliberately drained the flask. Then he laid it down and said:
“Bejabers, that tastes loike some whisky I once got in Donnybrook!” he said. “It’s fairly aloive!”
Pomp gave a gasp.
Then he picked up the flask and looked at Barney like one in a dream. His eyes fairly rolled in their sockets.