"You ain't half drinkin', Owen," he said.
Sanderson reached over, took the glass, threw its contents on the floor
and grasped Owen by the shoulder. His gaze met the tempter's, coldly.
"My friend ain't drinkin' no more tonight," he declared.
The tempter sneered, his body stiffening.
"He ain't, eh?" he grinned, insolently. "I reckon you don't know him;
he likes whisky as a fish likes water."
Several men in the vicinity guffawed loudly.
Owen was drunk. His hair was rumpled, his face was flushed, and his
eyes were bleared and wide with an unreasoning, belligerent light as he
got up, swaying unsteadily, and looked at Sanderson.
"Not drink any more?" he demanded loudly. "Who says I can't? I've got
lots of money, and there's lots of booze here. Who says I can't drink
any more?"
And now, for the first time, he seemed to realize that Sanderson stood
before him. But the knowledge appeared merely to increase his
belligerence to an insane fury. He broke from Sanderson's restraining
grasp and stood off, reeling, looking at Sanderson with the grin of a
satyr.
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