He poured a little liquor in a saucer and set it down on the floor before the dog, who lapped it up with all the relish of a seasoned toper. Then it put its paws back on Jake's knees, as if asking for more. "No! Mike. Nothin' doin'. You've had your whack. Too much ain't good for your complexion, old man." In a sort of dreamy, contemplative mood the dog sat down on its haunches between us. "What'll you do o' nights if you don't drink? You ain't told me that, George," reiterated Jake, sucking some of the liquor from his drooping moustaches. "Oh!" I replied, "I'll read, and sometimes I'll sit out and watch the stars and listen to the sea and the wind." "And what after that?" he queried. "I can always think, when I have nothing else to do." "And what after that?" he asked again. "Nothing, Jake,--nothing. That's all." "No it ain't. No it ain't, I tell you;--after that,--it's the bughouse for yours. It's the thinking,--it's the thinking that does it every time. It's the last stage, George. You'll be clean, plumb batty inside o' six months." The dog got up, after two unsuccessful attempts. Never did I see such a strange sight in any animal. He put out one paw and staggered to the right. He put out another and staggered to the left. All the time, his eyes were half closed. He was quite insensible of our presence, for he was as drunk as any waterfront loafer. Staggering, stumbling and balancing, he made his way back to his place beside the stove, where, in a moment more, he was in a deep sleep and snoring,--as a Westerner would put it,--to beat the cars. Meaghan noticed my interest in the phenomenon. "That's nothin'," he volunteered. "Mike has his drink with me every night, for the sake o' company. Why not? He doesn't see any fun in lookin' at the stars and watching the tide come up o' nights. Worst is, he can't stand up to liquor. It kind o' gets his goat; yet he's been tipplin' for three years now." Jake finished off his cup of whisky. "Good Heavens, man!" I exclaimed in disgust and dismay, "don't you know you will kill yourself drinking that stuff in that way?" "Guess nit," he growled, but quite good-naturedly. "I ain't started. I've been drinkin' more'n that every night for ten years and I ain't dead yet,--not by a damn sight. No! nor I ain't never been drunk, neither." He took up the other cupful of whisky as he spoke and slowly drained it off before my eyes. He laid the empty cup on the table with a grunt of satisfaction, pulling at his long moustaches in lazy pleasure. "That's my nightcap, George. Better'n seein' stars, too." I could see his end. "I'd much rather see stars than snakes," I remarked. But Jake merely laughed it off. I rose in a kind of cold perspiration. To me, this was horrible;--drinking for no apparent reason.