rose in Berry's pallid countenance, Sim's portion
apparently evaporated from the glass. The whiskey
made no visible impression on Gordon Makimmon.
The jug was circulated again, and again.
All at once Rutherford became drunk. He rose
swaying, attempted to articulate, and fell, half in a
stall. Simeon Caley pulled him out, slapped his
back with a hard, gnarled palm, but was unable to
arouse him from a profound stupor.

"He ain't right strong," Sim observed with a
trace of contempt, propping the figure in a limp
angle against the wall. It was dark now, and he
lit the hand lantern, cautiously closing the door.
Outside the whippoorwills had begun to call. A
determined rattling of pots and pans sounded from
the kitchen.

"How much is in her, Gord?" Sim asked.

Gordon Makimmon investigated the jug. "She's
near three quarters full," he announced.

An expression of profound content settled upon
Simeon Caley. The jug went round and round.
Gordon grew a shade more punctilious than customary,
he wiped the jug's mouth before passing it to
Sim -- at the premature retirement of Rutherford the
glasses had been discarded as effete; but not a degree
of the other's manner betrayed the influence of
his Gargantuan draughts of liquor. The lantern
flickered on the sloping, cobwebby roof, on the

[[228]]

p227 _ -chap- _ toc-1 _ p228w _ toc-2 _ +chap+ _ p229

v?