touch a thing. I reckon I can do it again. Here's how!"
"Wait!" declared Ronicky Doone. And there was a little jarring ring in his voice that arrested the hand of Bill Gregg in the very act of raising the glass.
Ronicky crossed the room quickly, took a glass from the washstand and, returning to the center table, poured a liberal drink of the whisky into it.
"I dunno about my friend," he went on, almost sternly, to the bewildered hotel keeper. "I dunno about him, but some gents feel so strong about not drinking alone that they'd sooner fight. Well, sir, I'm one of that kind. So I say, there's your liquor. Get rid of it!"
The fat man reached the center table and propped himself against it, gasping. His whole big body seemed to be wilting, as though in a terrific heat. "I dunno!" he murmured. "I dunno what's got into you fellers. I tell you, I never drink."
"You lie, you fat fool!" retorted Ronicky. "Didn't I smell your breath?"
Bill Gregg dropped his own glass on the table and hurriedly came to confront his host by the side of Ronicky.
"Breath?" asked the fat man hurriedly, still gasping more and more heavily for air. "I—I may have taken a small tonic after dinner. In fact, think I did. That's all. Nothing more, I assure you. I—I have to be a sober man in my work."
"You got to make an exception this evening," said Ronicky, more fiercely than ever. "I ought to make you drink all three drinks for being so slow about drinking one!"
"Three drinks!" exclaimed the fat man, trembling violently. "It—it would kill me!"
"I think it would," said Ronicky. "I swear I think it would. And maybe even one will be a sort of a shock, eh?"
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