will revive presently: go!

Sandy (hesitating). I say, Jack, he wasn't taken sick along o' me,
eh, Jack?

Oakhurst. No! No! But go (pushing him toward door).

Sandy. Hold on: I'm going. But, Jack, I've got a kind of
faintness yer, too. (Goes to side-table, and takes up decanter.)
And thar's nothing reaches that faintness like whiskey. (Fills
glass.) Old Morton (drunkenly and half-consciously from couch).
Whiskey--who shed--whiskey--eh? Eh--O--gimme some, Aleck--Aleck,
my son,--my son!--my old prodigal--Old Proddy, my boy--gimme--
whiskey--(sings)--


Oh, yer's yer good old whiskey,
Drink it down!


Eh? I com--mand you,--pass the whiskey!

SANDY, at first panic-stricken, and then remorsefully conscious,
throws glass down, with gesture of fear and loathing. OAKHURST
advances to his side hurriedly.

Oakhurst (in hurried whisper). Give him the whiskey, quick! It
will keep him quiet. (Is about to take decanter when SANDY seizes
it: struggle with OAKHURST.)