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?"

He commanded suddenly: "Drink! Drink that glass and clean out the last
drop of it, or we'll tie you and pry your mouth open and pour the
whole bottle down your throat. You understand?"

A feeble moan came from the throat of the hotel keeper. He cast
one frantic glance toward the door and a still more frantic appeal
centered on Ronicky Doone, but the face of the latter was as cold as
stone.

"Then take your own glasses, boys," he said, striving to smile, as he
picked up his own drink.