"Well," he snarled, "I suppose I gotta give you cheap skates a
drink when I ain't got more'n enough for a good petrification for
myself."

Almost a softening flicker of light was imminent in his withered
face as he beheld the others proudly lift their hats and exhibit
their own supplies.

"Here's some water for the mixin's," Whiskers said, proffering his
tomato-can of river slush. "Stockyards just above," he added
apologetically. "But they say--"

"Huh!" Slim snapped short, mixing the drink. "I've drunk worse'n
stockyards in my time."

Yet when all was ready, cans of alki in their solitary hands, the
three things that had once been men hesitated, as if of old habit,
and next betrayed shame as if at self-exposure.

Whiskers was the first to brazen it.

"I've sat in at many a finer drinking," he bragged.

"With the pewter," Slim sneered.

"With the silver," Whiskers corrected.

Slim turned a scorching eye-interrogation on Fatty.

Fatty nodded.