"Now I'll sleep soundly tonight. I was
afraid the darned thing would keep me awake all night. Remember
me saying I had a small stock hid away up in my room? What say to
going up,--now that the coast is clear,--and having a nip or two?"
"No, thanks, old man. I don't drink. Doctor's orders. Besides,
I've got some letters to write. I'll walk home with you if you're
ready to go."
II
Mr. Webster shook his head sadly. "That's the one drawback to
livin' in Windomville," he said. "People either want to drink too
much or they don't want to drink at all. Nobody wants to drink in
moderation. Now, here's you, for instance. You look like a feller
that could kiss a highball or two without compromising yourself, and
there's Hatch that has to hold his nose so's he won't get drunk if
he comes within ten feet of a glass of whiskey." They were strolling
slowly toward the Tavern. "Now you up and claim you're on the water
wagon. I'd been counting on you, Court,--I certainly had. The last
time I took Hatch and Doc Simpson up to my room,--that was on the
Fourth of last July,--I had to sleep on the floor. Course, if I
was skinny like Doc and Hatch that wouldn't have been necessary.
But I can't bear sleepin' three in a bed. Doctor's orders, eh? That
comes of livin' in New York. There ain't a doctor in Indiana that
would stoop so low as that,--not one.
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