The Jake I looked upon after that was not the Jake I had known for the past few months.
He sat staring in front of him for a little while, then he exclaimed huskily, almost hungrily:
"Say, fellows! Give us some more. It tastes pretty good to me."
"Thought he would come to it," shouted the black-haired man triumphantly. "We ain't refusin' no booze to-night. Fetch a cup o' rye for Jake."
One of the others brought it, and it was held to the old man's lips. He let it over his throat almost at a single gulp.
"More,—more!"
More was brought, and again he drank.
Three times Jake emptied that brimming cup of raw spirits.
I shivered with abhorrence at the sight.
"More?" queried the big man.