Hank. Them? Oh, the lock's no good. When the wind's southwest they fly right open. Got to be wedged with a shingle.
[He goes over to the doors, slams them shut, picks up a shingle from the floor and inserts firmly between them.]
Lon [relieved]. H'm. Well, that's all right.
Hank. Now it's blame cur'us the way old places gits. You'll hear these floor boards creak at times like as if som'un was sneakin' over 'em b'ar-foot. Feller told me onct it was made by contrapshun and temper'ture. Mebbe so, but I reckon [knowingly] there's more goes on around than we give credit fer.
[Hank dusts off the table and puts bottle and glass down. Lon seizes them eagerly and begins drinking.]
Lon [after a couple of glasses]. You mean—spirits?
Hank. Well, I dunno as you'd call 'em that. But it's a fact, there's more liquor goes over the Bar than gits paid for. 'Tain't stole either. It just goes.... As old Pete Gunderson used to say, "I'm a hell of a th'usty p'uson, and when I croak I'll be a hell of a th'usty spirit." I sometimes wonder—
[Padie appears above, in a loose dressing sack, her hair hanging in a great wavy mass, and holding a pitcher.]
Padie. Lon, please fetch some water.
Lon [not moving]. I don't dast go out in the night. I've caught a kind of chill from to-day's drive.