Ronicky Doone shook his head. "No joke at all," he said firmly.
"Matter of politeness that a lot of gents are terrible hard set on out
where we come from."

"Why, Ronicky," protested Bill Gregg, "ain't you making it a little
strong? For my part I've drunk twenty times without having the gent
that set 'em up 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?"