“Sure.”
“Mr. Drake,” said Half-past Full, sweating with his effort, “we were sorry while we was a-fogging you up.”
“Yes,” said Drake. “You must have been just overcome by contrition.”
A large laugh went up from the visitors, and the meal was finished without further diplomacy.
“One matter, Mr. Drake,” stammered Half-past Full, as the party rose. “Our jobs. We're glad to pay for any things what got sort of broke.”
“Sort of broke,” repeated the boy, eyeing him. “So you want to hold your jobs?”
“If—” began the buccaroo, and halted.
“Fact is, you're a set of cowards,” said Drake, briefly. “I notice you've forgot to remove that whiskey jug.” The demijohn still stood by the great fireplace. Drake entered and laid hold of it, the crowd standing back and watching. He took it out, with what remained in its capacious bottom, set it on a stump, stepped back, levelled his gun, and shattered the vessel to pieces. The whiskey drained down, wetting the stump, creeping to the ground.
Much potency lies in the object-lesson, and a grin was on the faces of all present, save Uncle Pasco's. It had been his demijohn, and when the shot struck it he blinked nervously.
“You ornery old mink!” said Drake, looking at him. “You keep to the jewelry business hereafter.”