"Little liquah, too," from Moore.
"Beer."
"Beer."
"Drink whiskey!" insisted Legs and Moore, of the other two. "Something that has the kick."
"These are my sons," said Legs, teasingly.
"Hold on heh', George," argued Moore with the bartender, "you know how I take mine. A half-a-pint 'n' two glasses." The bartender obeyed.
Here Wyeth observed, was diplomacy, albeit economy. Moore paid twenty-five cents for the half pint, wherein he and Legs had six sociable drinks, three a-piece; whereas, the same would have totalled sixty cents otherwise.
"How's this town for gettin' hold a-something?" inquired Legs of Moore, when John Barleycorn was doing his duty.
"Best town in the south to get it, if you're wise," Moore winked.
Legs responded with a big wink. "I'm the man that put 'w' in whiskey," he smiled. "I'n get mine when it's in the gettin'."