No, it should not be said that he, the selected escort of the elite of
Devil's Ford, had to fill himself up with whiskey before they started.
The boys might turn to each other in their astonishment, as he proudly
passed with his fair companions, and say, "It's Whiskey Dick," but he'd
be d----d if they should add, "and full as ever." No, sir! Nor when
he was riding beside these real ladies, and leaning over them at some
confidential moment, should they even know it from his breath! No. . . .
Yet a thimbleful, taken straight, only a thimbleful, wouldn't be much,
and might help to pull him together. He again reached his trembling
hand for the decanter, hesitated, and then, turning his back upon it,
resolutely walked to the open window. Almost at the same instant he
found himself face to face with Christie on the veranda.

She looked into his bloodshot eyes, and cast a swift glance at the
decanter.

"Won't you take something before you go?" she said sweetly.

"I--reckon--not, jest now," stammered Whiskey Dick, with a heroic
effort.

"You're right," said Christie. "I see you are like me. It's too hot for
anything fiery. Come with me."

She led him into the dining-room, and pouring out a glass of iced
tea handed it to him. Poor Dick was not prepared for this terrible
culmination. Whiskey Dick and iced tea! But under pretence of seeing if
it was properly flavored, Christie raised it to her own lips.

"Try it, to please me."