"Here's to you--drinkin' deep."
And he tossed off the mighty potion. Bard had poured only a few drops
into his glass; he had too much sympathy for his empty stomach to do
more. His host leaned back, coughing, with tears of pleasure in his
eyes.
"Damn me!" he breathed reverently. "I ain't touched stuff like this in
ten years."
"Is this a new stock?" inquired Bard, apparently puzzled.
"This?" said Lawlor, recalling his position with a start. "Sure it is;
brand new. Yep, stuff ain't been in more'n five days. Smooth, ain't it?
Medicine, that's what I call it; a gentleman's drink--goes down like
water."
Observing a rather quizzical light in the eyes of Bard, he felt that he
had probably been making a few missteps, and being warmed greatly at the
heart by the whisky, he launched forth in a new phase of the
conversation.
CHAPTER XXVI
"THE CRITIQUE OF PURE REASON"
"Speakin' of hard cattlemen," he said, "I could maybe tell you a few
things, son."
"No doubt of it," smiled Anthony. "I presume it would take a _very_ hard
man to handle this crowd.
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