“No, I didn’t exactly see it, Judge,” replied Slim soberly. “Yuh see, I was out in the blacksmith shop, tryin’ to make a couple new iron lids for the cook-stove. When we was makin’ this mash, it kinda boiled over on the stove and et up two lids, jist like a Piute eats hotcakes. Why, I jist got in the steam of that batch, and it et all the rivets out of m’ overalls.”
Henry put one hand on the jug and shut his eyes. “I can see it all,” he said soberly. “A wonderful tale—and well told, Frijole. Thanks to you, Slim, for the additions. Judge, if you will be kind enough to procure the cups—”
The testing of a new batch of Frijole’s distillation was a ceremony. They drank from tin cups which held almost a half-pint. Sometimes Henry or Judge offered a toast, but usually they merely nodded to each other, held the cups high, and drank swiftly. This was no liquor to be sipped.
For several moments after the drink no one spoke. In fact, it was a physical impossibility. Slim’s whisper came first—“Don’t anybody light a match!”
Gradually as they recovered speech and action, Henry said, “That is proof positive, gentlemen.”
“What does it prove?” husked Judge.
“It proves the story of Bill Shakespeare and the snake, sir.”
“And I,” said Judge soberly, “feel sorry for the snake.”
“And why, may I ask, sir?”
“For wasting its efforts. One strike would have been enough.”