over."

Christopher drained his glass of whisky, and then, refilling it,
pushed it across the table.

"What! Aren't you man enough to swallow a thimbleful?" he asked,
with a laugh. His face was flushed, and the dust of the roads
showed in streaks upon his forehead, where the crown of his straw
hat had drawn a circle around his moist fair hair. The hand with
which he touched the glass trembled slightly, and his eyes were
so reckless that, after an instants' frightened silence. Peterkin
cried out in alarm: "For the Lord's sake, Mr. Christopher, you're
not yourself--it's the way his father went, you know!"

"What of it?" demanded Christopher, turning his dangerous look
upon the little man. "If there's a merrier way to go, I'd like to
know it."

Peterkin drew over to the table and laid a restraining hold on
the boy's arm. "Put that down, sonny," he said. "I couldn't stand
it, and you may be sure it'll do you no good. It will turn your
stomach clean inside out."

"He took it," replied the boy stubbornly, "and I'll drink it if
he says so." He lifted the glass and stood looking inquiringly at
the man across from him. "Shall I drink it?" he asked, and waited
with a boyish swagger.

Christopher gave a short nod. "Oh, not if you're afraid of it,"
he responded roughly; and then, as Will threw back his head and