"Stop your jack-assery, Forrester," broke in Palmer; "you can't fool Simmons—he's got his eye on the label."
Which was true enough. Harvey's eye was gleaming, staring, like some pallid woodsman's when it catches the glare of an Indian's fire.
"That's all right, Simmons," explained Forrester calmly; "the bottle happens to bear an honoured Glasgow name—and the liquid is worthy of it. There isn't a headache in a hogshead—try it and see."
Harvey's lips were white and dry. "No, thank you, Forrester," he said in a harsh voice that sounded far away. "I won't take any."
"Take a little for Palmer's stomach's sake—he's had enough."
Harvey refused again. Destitute was his answer of all merriment or banter. He stood bolt upright, fixed as a statue, his eyes still on the big black thing Forrester was holding out in front of him. "Not any, Forrester," he said; "I don't want any, I tell you."
"Let him alone, Scottie," interrupted Palmer. "Simmons is on the water-waggon, to-night anyhow—and besides, that stuff's a dollar and a half a quart."
Forrester was about to comply when Oliver suddenly arose from his lounging position and shuffled out to where the two were standing. He had already familiarized himself with the bottle sufficiently to be in a rather hectoring mood.
"Go and sit down, Forrester," he growled out; "I guess I'm the host here. And I don't blame Simmons for turning up his nose," he went on as he turned and opened a little cabinet—"poking a black bottle in front of a man as if he were a coal-heaver; we're not on the Glasgow cattle market," he added contemptuously, producing a couple of glasses and handing one to Harvey. "Here, Simmons, drink like a gentleman—and I'll drink with you." And the sweat came out on Harvey's forehead as the stuff poured out, gurgling enticingly as it broke from the bottle's mouth. "Here, this is yours; and we'll drink to the Morning Argus—it'll belong to you some day. I heard to-day it's going to change hands soon anyhow."
The mention of the name lent a wealth of resolution to Harvey's wavering will. He recalled, his heart maddening at the memory, how Oliver had pressed this self-same toast before.