Five strange men were now in the cabin, which was cloudy with tobacco smoke. The carousal had increased rather than otherwise. The men were gathered round Jake, laughing and cursing in wild derision. They were not interested in me at the moment, so I stayed quiet, making pretence that the unconsciousness was still upon me, whenever any of them turned in my direction.
Through my half-opened eyelids, I fancied I recognised the leader of the crowd as a black-haired, beady-eyed, surly dog of a logger who had come in several times from Camp No. 2 to help with the taking up of their supplies,—but of his identity I was not quite certain.
As my scattered senses began to collect, I hoped against hope that these men would keep up their drinking bout until not one of them would be able to stand. But, while they drank long and drank deeply, they were too wise by far to overdo it.
Then I got to wondering what they were badgering old Jake about, for I could hear him growl and curse, his gag having fallen to the floor.
"Go to hell and take the trunk, the booze and the whole caboose with you, if you want to. I don't want none of it. I ain't hoggin' booze any more."
"Ho, ho! Hear that," yelled the big, black-haired individual, "he ain't boozin'! The old swiller ain't boozin' and him keeps a keg o' whisky under his nose.
"Ain't boozin' with common ginks like us,—that's what he means.
"Come on! We'll show him whether he ain't boozin' or not."
He got a cupful of the raw spirits and stuck it to Jake's mouth. But Jake shook his head.
"Come on! Drink it up or I'll sling it down your gullet."