Doctor Alec Fraser was tall, and fair, and new to the prairie. He was not long from the hospitals and unmarried. He was more than welcome in Buffalo Coulee for other reasons than his medical skill. The township had never before had a doctor of its own, and Fraser came as something of a luxury.
With the collar of his fur coat flung back, and the heavy garment itself unfastened, Doctor Fraser was eyeing Pideau behind his counter, over the rim of the schooner pouring its cool amber liquid down his throat.
“That’s good stuff, Pideau,” he said with a sigh of content, as he set his glass down on the counter. “It’s better than—‘homebrew,’” he added slyly.
Pideau shot a suspicious glance at his visitor who vaulted to a seat on the counter.
“Ther’s worse’n ‘homebrew’ under Prohibition,” he growled.
“Is there?”
Fraser laughed and shook his head.
“Never on your life!” he went on. “There’s nothing out of hell worse. ‘Homebrew’s’ sending half the States crazy.”
Pideau shrugged. He leaned back against his newly arranged shelves.
“That don’t need to worry us across here,” he retorted. “They’ll pay big money for all they can get of it. They lap it up same as if they was weaned on it. You can’t blame folks makin’ it to sell ’em. Blame the crazy guys who threw a hand fer Prohibition. I’d drink the salt of the sea if you made it I mustn’t. ’Tain’t our worry. I’d feed ’em prussic acid if they’d pay me fer it.”