The fat man waved the suggestion aside.  “Never touch it,” he assured them.  “Used to indulge a little in light wines and beers when the country was wet, but when it went dry the stuff didn’t mean enough to me to make it worth while dodging the law.  I just manage to keep a little of it around for old friends and men out of a dry country.”

“But we got a funny habit out in our country.  We can’t no ways drink unless the gent that’s setting them out takes something himself.  It ain’t done that way in our part of the land,” said Ronicky.

“It ain’t?”

“Never!”

“Come, come!  That’s a good joke.  But, even if I can’t be with you, boys, drink hearty.”

Ronicky Doone shook his head.  “No joke at all,” he said firmly.  “Matter of politeness that a lot of gents are terrible hard set on out where we come from.”

“Why, Ronicky,” protested Bill Gregg, “ain’t you making it a little strong?  For my part I’ve drunk twenty times without having the gent that set ’em up touch a thing.  I reckon I can do it again.  Here’s how!”

“Wait!” declared Ronicky Doone.  And there was a little jarring ring in his voice that arrested the hand of Bill Gregg in the very act of raising the glass.

Ronicky crossed the room quickly, took a glass from the washstand and, returning to the center table, poured a liberal drink of the whisky into it.

“I dunno about my friend,” he went on, almost sternly, to the bewildered hotel keeper.  “I dunno about him, but some gents feel so strong about not drinking alone that they’d sooner fight.  Well, sir, I’m one of that kind.  So I say, there’s your liquor.  Get rid of it!”

The fat man reached the center table and propped himself against it, gasping.  His whole big body seemed to be wilting, as though in a terrific heat.  “I dunno!” he murmured.  “I dunno what’s got into you fellers.  I tell you, I never drink.”

“You lie, you fat fool!” retorted Ronicky.  “Didn’t I smell your breath?”

Bill Gregg dropped his own glass on the table and hurriedly came to confront his host by the side of Ronicky.

“Breath?” asked the fat man hurriedly, still gasping more and more heavily for air.  “I—­I may have taken a small tonic after dinner.  In fact, think I did.  That’s all.  Nothing more, I assure you.  I—­I have to be a sober man in my work.”

“You got to make an exception this evening,” said Ronicky, more fiercely than ever.  “I ought to make you drink all three drinks for being so slow about drinking one!”

“Three drinks!” exclaimed the fat man, trembling violently.  “It—­it would kill me!”

“I think it would,” said Ronicky.  “I swear I think it would.  And maybe even one will be a sort of a shock, eh?”

He commanded suddenly:  “Drink!  Drink that glass and clean out the last drop of it, or we’ll tie you and pry your mouth open and pour the whole bottle down your throat.  You understand?”