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Johnson, E. Pauline, 1861-1913

"The Moccasin Maker"

"
We were dead silent. For myself, I thought the fellow clean
crazy; but the next moment he had turned half around, and with a
quick, soft, coaxing movement, for all the world like a woman, he
slipped his arm around Jake's shoulders, and said, "Say, Jake,
don't let the fellows mind me," Then in a lower tone--"What have
you got to drink?"
Jake went white-looking and began to talk of some cider he'd got in
the cellar; but Barrett interrupted with, "Look here, Jake, just
drop that rot; I know all about _you_." He tipped a half wink at
the rest of us, but laid his fingers across his lips. "Come, old
man," he wheedled like a girl, "you don't know what it is to be
dragged away from college and buried alive in this Indian bush. The
governor's good enough, you know--treats me white and all that--but
you know what he is on whiskey. I tell you I've got a throat as
long and dry as a fence rail--"
No one spoke.
"You'll save my life if you do," he added, crushing a bank note
into Jake's hand.
Jake looked at me. The same thought flashed on us both; if we could
get this church student on our side--Well! Things would be easy
enough and public suspicion never touch us. Jake turned,
resurrected the hidden cups, and went down cellar.


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