“Hullo, Smiler!” cried one of the men. “Come and have a drink.”
The boy shook his head and backed away.
McGregor made a grab at him and caught him by the coat collar. He pulled the frightened youngster to the counter and, picking up a bottle of whisky, thrust it under the lad’s nose.
“Here, kid;––big drink! Ginger-beer;––good stuff!”
The boy caught the bottle in his hands, tilted it and took a gulp. Then he coughed and spluttered, and spat it out, almost dropping the bottle as McGregor, laughing hilariously, laid hold of it.
“Come on, Smiler!––you got to finish this. Say, Stitchy,––let’s make him drunk. Here!––you hold him.”
The boy made that inarticulate cry which dumb people make when seized suddenly with fear.
Only then did it strike Phil Ralston that the lad was dumb, as well as half-witted.
The man whom McGregor addressed as Stitchy caught the boy and held him securely by the arms, tilting his head 53 backward until he was unable to move. McGregor brought the bottle and was on the point of forcing the helpless Smiler to open his mouth, when the bottle was sent flying out of his hands and he staggered back against the counter from a blow on the side of the face from Phil’s fist.
“Leave the boy alone!” he cried angrily, his face pale as he laboured to stifle his excitement.