“Damn your litmus papers,” gasps Toledo,—“without any—personal offence intended. We’ve heard of ’em before. Let ’em turn red, white and blue. What we want is a repeated test of that—whiskey. Come again. I paid for the last round, Goodall, of Memphis.”
The bottle oscillates from one to the other, continues to do so, and is not removed from the counter. The bartender sees two emaciated invalids dispose of enough Kentucky Belle to floor a dozen cowboys, without displaying any emotion save a sad and contemplative interest in the peregrinations of the bottle. So he is moved to manifest a solicitude as to the consequences.
“Not on your Uncle Mark Hanna,” responds Toledo, “will we get drunk. We’ve been—vaccinated with whiskey and—cod liver oil. What would send you to the police station—only gives us a thirst. S-s-set out another bottle.”
