“No, not a flask; that wasn’t big enough for to-day. It was a bottle with strong stuff in it—Yeggie smelt it.”
“Well, what did Yeggie do?” I asked impatiently.
“Yeggie did nothing. He just watched. Master Carty was talking to himself. ‘If I take this brandy in the house, those blessed’—only Yeggie didn’t hear blessed—‘women will be watering it, and I’m wet enough without any more diluting. I’ll hide it.’”
“And you marked the hiding place, and came and told Gringo.”
“Yes, Yeggie did,” and the little Jack-in-the-box almost danced his legs off.
“And what did you do, Gringo?” I asked, turning to him.
“I thought about that kick he gave me yesterday,” said the old dog. “A man who starts kicking animals, winds up by kicking human beings. If I should ever see Master Carty kick Mrs. Bonstone, or the brown baby, I’d bite him. So I thought we’d better extract the kick right now.”
“Isn’t this terrible,” I exclaimed. “He’s bringing far too many bottles from the city lately. It’s amazing how many drinks a day a man can take.”
“He’s a scamp,” said Gringo, “but he’ll get nothing out of his bottle this time. I ran up here, when Yeggie told me, and what do you think we’ve done to the bottle?”