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Then he drew a cigar from a top vest pocket and bit the end through, brushing his moustache aside to discover a place in which to deposit it in his mouth. "I'd sure hate to dope out any rotgut on you boys. Y'see, I sure got your health at heart. I kind o' love you fellers to death. I'd hate to see you sufferin' at my hands. Guess I was raised Christian." "Was you?"
Red's eyes narrowed and his temper got the upper hand. "He ain't no bum when yu gives him rotgut at a quarter of a dollar a glass, is he? Any time that 'bum' gits razzled out for nothin' more'n this, why, I goes too; an' I ain't sayin' nothin' about goin' peaceable like, neither." "I knowed somethin' like this 'ud happen," dolefully sang out Billy Williams, strong on the side of his pessimism.
And when they had brought her a glass of the vitriol, the rotgut, and her jaws had contracted at the first mouthful, the zinc-worker resumed, slapping his thighs: "Ha! It tickles your gullet! Drink it off at one go. Each glassful cheats the doctor of six francs." At the second glass Gervaise no longer felt the hunger which had been tormenting her.
We brought out six bottles o' the worstest rotgut ever faked in a settlement saloon, an' handed it over. After that I guess we wus feelin' better. Sez we, feelin' kind o' mumsy over the whole racket, it ain't right, we sez, to harbor no sperrit-soaked, liver-pickled tag of a decent citizen's life around this layout; an' so we took Joe Nelson to the river and diluted him.
How profoundly the whole course of the Prohibition movement has been affected by the desire of the South to keep liquor away from the negroes, needs no elaboration; it would not be going far beyond the truth to say that the people of New York are being deprived of their right to the harmless enjoyment of wine and beer in order that the negroes of Alabama and Texas may not get beastly drunk on rotgut whiskey.
Wal, 'bout the time the rotgut wus flowin' good an' frekent, they started in to pool fer the prettiest wench in the room, as is the custom down ther'. Brown, he wus dead set on his gal winnin', I guess; an' 'Dyke Hole' Bill, he'd got a pretty tidy filly wi' him hisself, an' didn't reckon as no daisy from a bum saloon could gi' her any sort o' start.
"S-Sheriff F-Fyles," he answered doubtfully. He seemed to have forgotten the very name. "F-Fyles?" he repeated again. "Letter? Say, now, I wus kind o' wonderin' what I cum to Forks fer. Y' see I mostly git around Forks fer Carney's rotgut. Course, ther' wus a letter. Jest wher' did I put that now?" He became quite cheerful as he probed his pockets.
Well, he fell to tasting, and he soon grew eloquent in praise of the colonial juice, which he declared would, in another twenty years’ time, be fit to compete successfully with the best French vintages. Of course, the French gentlemen with us could not stand this; they spoke slightingly of the British colonial, and one of them even went so far as to call it rotgut.
"We've got some gentlemen heer we're gwine to jail till mornin'." "All right. I'll slide open the doors as soon as I git my shoes on. I wus in bed." "We'll have to leave these barrels o' rotgut with you." "All right. Plenty o' room." Westerfelt came down-stairs just as Washburn opened the big doors.
We drank the cheap rotgut out of tumblers. Was I any the less strong, any the less valiant, than the harpooner and the sailor? They were men. They proved it by the way they drank. Drink was the badge of manhood. So I drank with them, drink by drink, raw and straight, though the damned stuff couldn't compare with a stick of chewing taffy or a delectable "cannon-ball."
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