Old Hooblitz took the flask, and after helping himself to a long swig, he handed it back to Gussie, saying: “Don’t be so damn touchy about your niggers. Take your drink, an’ go on back to ’um. You might miss the excitement if you stay here too long.” Gussie put the flask to his mouth and took a long pull. He handed it back and the old man put it in his pocket and sat down sullenly. Gussie shook himself in his wet clothes, put on his cap, buttoned his coat well about his neck, and started for the door. He looked out to see if the rain had abated. “’Tain drappin’ so hard like it ’twas,” he said, turning to the old man. “But ’tain no use stay’n hyuh no longer. So Mr. Hooblitz, I’m goin’ tell you good-night.” The old man made an inarticulate grunt as Gussie left, calling to him as the door closed: “Damn you an’ your good-night! I don’t care if I never see you no more.” Going over to the bunk, he lifted the straw mattress and brought out a quart bottle of whiskey. He filled the empty flask he had in his pocket, took a generous gulp, put the flask back, and looked out at the weather. The rain was falling in torrents. He would have to go out after the wood, as the fire was burning very low. Going over to the array of clothing on the wall, he took an old coat from the peg, threw it over his shoulders and started out in search of the woodpile. After stumbling through the dark, he came back after a while with four sticks of wood, his clothing thoroughly drenched. “A good dram’ll warm up the inside, an’ I’ll be dry in no time,” he said to reassure himself, lifting his flask and drinking heartily. Then he raked the fire together and put on two sticks of wood, and went into his room to lie down until the cooking required further attention. The rain pelted on the tin roof of the shed and the ringing sound went echoing through the room like a savage serenade. The malodorous fumes of the boiling pot also went into the room, bringing him visions of profitable sales and more comforting flasks for the lonely nights to follow. The thought made him happy, so he took another long drink of thankfulness; closing his eyes so as not to be shocked by the dismal aspect of an empty bottle. The rain rattled and the fire cracked, but nothing disturbed the pleasure of his dreaming. The pot gurgled and the fire cracked louder than before, but the rude noise failed to penetrate the chaotic lethargy that wrapped his maudlin mind. Suddenly the gunpowder exploded, sending the loaded cord sticks flying in every direction; the seething pot soaring into the air against the tin roof, rattling like a charge of light artillery; the heterogeneous contents, scattered to the four winds like the spoils of battle.