“It means free drinks for all this pertic’lar bunch,” continued Buck, “for there is no question as to where the keg came from. Look at the date on the top—1853. This ‘ere barrel came out of Joaquin Murietta’s wine cellar.”
“You don’t say?” exclaimed Munson, pressing forward eagerly to examine the little brass-hooped keg, looking bright and sound despite its antiquity.
“This whisky is sixty years old at least,” Buck went on, turning the tap and filling a small pitcher.
“Tastes like it might be a hundred years older,” remarked the sheriff. “Mellow as fresh drawn milk.”
Buck handed Munson a pony glass of the rare old beverage.
“By jove, it is fine,” said the lieutenant, judicially smacking his lips.
“Just makes my internals feel as soft and roly-poly as a ripe pomegranate,” murmured Tom, as he set down his empty glass and rubbed his belt-line in a complacent way.
“Well, we’ll fill up again, boys,” cried Buck. “Here’s to dear old Pierre Luzon, for it was sure him who sent us the mystery keg.”
“And to Dick Willoughby who won the prize,” cried Jack Rover.
“And to our host,” added Munson in a courtly way. “To Buck Ashley, boys, the postmaster of the new city of Tejon.”