He drew the stopper with his teeth, and handed me the bottle. I think I have said elsewhere in this narrative that drinking whisky is not one of my weaknesses. That is to say, it is not a habit. I can scarcely conceive of a man living thirty years in Kentucky without drinking a little whisky. I knew the stuff I held was vile, but I put it to my lips for two reasons. I was dead tired, and I wanted to set this contrary creature's tongue to going on topics which would interest me. I took a big mouthful, swallowed, and thought my time had come. Hot? My throat closed up, tight, and for a time I could not breathe. My mouth burned as though it had been cauterized. I slid from the table, choked, coughing, my eyes running water. Back to the kitchen I tore for a draught from the bucket on the shelf--for something that would unstop my windpipe. Pelting my ears as I ran were the high-pitched, cackling notes of the Satyr, volley after volley, as he hugged his knees and rocked and weaved in unrestrained delight. "Whut's the matter?" he queried, in mock surprise, as I reappeared with my handkerchief busy about my eyes and mouth. "No more o' that junk, Jeffy!" I replied, thrusting my hand into the medicine chest on the wall and producing a quart of ten-year-old rye whisky. "If I make merry with you I'll choose my beverage." "That's spring wadder!" he returned, contemptuously. "We feed that to babies out here." "Spring water it may be, but it's stout enough for your uncle." I drew the cork as I spoke, placed my private brand upon the table, found my pipe and sat down facing my strange guest. He proceeded to shame me by indulging in a very liberal potation, smacking his lips with greatest zest at its conclusion, and winking across at me in a manner intended to indicate his superiority. "Where's your fiddle?" I asked; not that I cared especially, but it was incumbent upon me to be agreeable. The Satyr jerked a grimy thumb toward the window which had just admitted him. "Out thur on th' binch. 'S wropped up 'n' th' jew won't hurt it." In the short silence which followed, we got our pipes to going. "Was that you whistling a while ago?" I continued, after waiting vainly for my visitor to say something voluntarily. "That's me a-play'n'." "Playing?" "Yes, play'n' a reed. Fus' thing ever I got music out o'." Again his hand was hidden in his tatters for a moment, and came out with what appeared to be a long, slender stick. This he placed to his mouth after the manner of a clarinet player, and blew a pure, flute-like note. Then I saw the instrument was hollow, with little round holes along its length. "Pipes o' Pan, by Jove!" I breathed. "Make me some music, Satyr." Already I was aware of the effect of that mouthful of white lightning. A slow but sure elation was beginning to buoy me up unnaturally, and I felt the ebullience of spirit such as follows the knowledge of some great joy.