"What do you want?" he ejaculated.

"It's time we were about our business," growled Jack.

"It's struck twelve."

"All right!" responded Hogan, who began to feel nervous, now that the
crisis was at hand.

"Don't sit rubbing your eyes, man, but get up."

"Haven't you got a drop of something to brace me up?" asked Hogan
nervously.

"What are you scared of, pard?" asked Rafferty contemptuously.

"Nothing," answered Hogan, "but I feel dry."

"All right. A drop of something will warm us both up."

Jack went behind the counter, and, selecting a bottle of rot-gut
whisky, poured out a stiff glassful apiece.

"Drink it, pard," he said.

Hogan did so, nothing loath.

"That's the right sort," he said, smacking his lips. "It's warming
to the stomach."