He went down into the dining-room and from a secret cupboard produced a bottle with a boastful label. Into a tumbler he splashed a very generous portion. Eline came in a flannel dressing-gown and skirt. She looked scarcely human. “Drink this,” commanded Mr. Stott. Eline took the glass timidly and examined it. “I could never drink that, sir,” she said, awe-stricken. “Drink it!” commanded Mr. Stott fiercely, “it is nothing.” To prove that it was nothing, he poured himself out an even more impressive quantity and tossed it down. In retaliation, the whiskey almost tossed down Mr. Stott. At any rate, he staggered under the shock. Fortunately for his reputation as a hard and easy drinker, Eline was oblivious to everything except a sense of complete suffocation accompanied by a feeling that she had swallowed a large ladleful of molten lead. So she did not see Mr. Stott gasping like a fish and clutching his throat. “Oh, sir--what was it?” she found voice to ask. “Whiskey,” said Mr. Stott in a strangled voice, “neat whiskey! It is nothing.” Eline had never drunk neat whiskey before. It seemed to her, as whiskey, distinctly untidy. It had sharp edges. She could only look upon her employer with a new born respect. “It is nothing,” said Mr. Stott again. Now that it was all over it seemed at any rate, easy. He was an abstemious man and in truth had never tasted whiskey in its undiluted state. Bravado had made him do it, but now that it was done, he had no regrets. “How’s your tooth?” “Fine, sir,” said Eline gratefully. She experienced a wonderful sense of exhilaration. So did Mr. Stott. “Sit down, Eline,” he pointed grandly to a chair. Eline smiled foolishly and sat. “I have always been a very heavy drinker,” said Mr. Stott gravely. “My father was before me. I am what is known as a three-bottle man.” He wondered at himself as he spoke. His maligned parent had been a Baptist minister. “Goodness!” said Eline impressed, “and there are only two bottles on the sideboard!” Mr. Stott looked. “There is only one, Eline,” he said severely, and looked again. “Yes, perhaps you’re right.” He closed first one eye and then the other. “Only one,” he said. “Two,” murmured Eline defiantly. “We Stotts have always been devil-may-care fellows,” said Mr. Stott moodily. “Into one scrape and out of another. Hard drinking, hard riding, hard living men, the salt of the earth, Eline.” “There are three bottles!” said Eline in wonderment. “My father fought Kid McGinty for twenty-five rounds.” Mt. Stott shook his head. “And beat him to--to--a jelly. Hard fighters every one of us. By heaven,” he said, his pugilistic mood reviving certain memories, “if I had laid my hands on that scoun’rel...!”