Ford scowled at him thoughtfully.
"Dick told you about the bottles in the haystack, did he?" he asked.
"Which stack was it? And how many bottles?"
Mose gave him a bleary stare. "Aw, you know. You hid 'em there yourself!
Dick said so. I ain't goin' to say which stack, or how many
bottles--or--any other--darn thing about it." He punctuated his phrases
by prodding a finger against Ford's chest, and he wagged his head with
all the self-consciousness of spurious virtue. "Promised Dick I
wouldn't, and I won't. Not a--darn--word about it. Wanted some--for m'
mince-meat, but I never took any outa the haystack." Whereupon he began
to show a pronounced limpness in his good leg, and a tendency to slide
down upon the floor.
Ford piloted him to a chair, eased him into it, and stood over him in
frowning meditation. Mose was drunk; absolutely, undeniably drunk. It
could not have been the jug, for the jug was full. Till then the oddity
of a full jug of whisky in Mose's kitchen after at least twenty-four
hours must have elapsed since its arrival, had not occurred to him. He
had been too preoccupied with his own fight to think much about Mose.
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