then, right behind him, rose a chorus of appreciative "ughs!"
I told you an Indian could smell whisky, but I didn't tell you why. It's his ruling passion. That's straight. I'm not judging the Indian; the taste was born in him. There are some white men just as bad. I'm not judging them, either. Some drink for the same reason the Indian does, some for others, and some—some men drink because they have to.
What was I saying? Oh, yes, Lee getting that whiff. Well, before he got the door unfastened, the man in the red shirt had pushed through the Indians and come up beside him.
"Me name's Clancy," said he. "Did yez bring up any stuff for me?"
"There's three barrels for somebody," replied Lee, and slid open the door—and the next minute he had jumped back with a yell, colliding with Clancy.
"Ugh!" ejaculated the apparition that confronted him.
"He's drunk! Majestically drunk! An' on my stuff!" roared Clancy; and then, turning fiercely on Lee: "Fwhat did ye let him in there for, eh? Fwhat did ye let him in for, ye mealy-faced little"
"Let him in nothing!" retorted Lee, getting back his grip on himself. "Here, you, get out—and quick!"
The Indian blinked gravely, but never moved. He sat cross-legged on the floor, exactly in the middle of the car between the doors, swaying slightly backward and forward. Beside him, up-ended and broached, was one of Clancy's kegs. The car reeked with the
