“Not me, Malone,” he answered, “I’ve been in the game too long. Can’t drink on this sort of a job.”
“Guess you’re right,” murmured Malone, letting the amber stream trickle slowly into the glass; “but it’s too bad.”
He raised the glass to his lips and swallowed half of the contents slowly.
“The stuff is so oily,” he mused, “that you don’t need a chaser. Just sort of oils its own way down, you know.”
The sheriff moistened his lips.
“It certainly is a shame that you can’t taste it,” continued Malone, as he drained the glass.
The sheriff hitched his belt with his customary gesture.
“It looks like the real thing,” he said judicially.
“It is,” pronounced Malone with decision, “and after the sort of poison they serve you around here—”
The sheriff shuddered with sympathy.