liquor." Perhaps it was some heritage from a well living
ancestry that had hardened its head with Port and Madeira in the
days when the Yancys owned their acres and their slaves. Be that
as it may, he was equal to the task he had set himself. He saw
with satisfaction the flush mount to Murrell's swarthy cheeks,
and felt that the limit of his capacity was being reached. Mr.
Slosson had become a sort of Greek chorus. He anticipated all
the possible phases of drunkenness that awaited his companions.
He went from silence to noisy mirth, when his unmeaning laughter
rang through the house; he told long witless stories as he leaned
against the bar; he became melancholy and described the loss of
his wife five years before. From melancholy he passed to
sullenness and seemed ready to fasten a quarrel on Yancy, but the
latter deftly evaded any such issue.

"What you-all want is another drink," he said affably. "With all
you been through you need a tonic, so shove along that extract of
cornshucks and molasses!"

"I'm a rip-staver," said Slosson thickly. "But I've knowed
enough sorrow to kill a horse."

"You have that look. Captain, will you join us?" asked Yancy.
Murrell shook his head, but he made a significant gesture to
Slosson as Yancy drained his glass.

"Have a drink with me!" cried Slosson, giving way to drunken
laughter.

"Don't you reckon you'll spite yo' appetite fo' breakfast,