"Can't you give me just a little more credit, Mick?" An expression meant to be a smile formed upon the haggard face. "Just for old time's sake? You know I've always been a good customer of yours, Kennedy."
"Not a cent."
"But I've got to have liquor!" One hand, ill-kept, but long of fingers and refined of shape, steadied the speaker. "I can't get along without it!"
"Sell something, then, and pay up."
The man thought a moment and shook his head.
"I haven't anything to sell; you know that. It's the wrong time of the year." He paused, and the travesty of a smile reappeared. "Next Winter—"
"You've got a horse outside."
For an instant Blair's gaunt face darkened at the insult; he grew almost dignified; but the drink curse had too strong a grip upon him and the odor of whiskey was in the air.
"Yes, I've a good horse," he said slowly. "What'll you give for him?"
"Seventy dollars."