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The men cheered heartily. “Come back, ye little imp,” Martin called. “We’ll have more o’ the same.”

“That we will,” said McCoy. “John, I’ll trade wenches wi’ ye any day ye like.”

“Keep your own,” said Mills, with a harsh laugh. “I’m well pleased with what I got. Come back, ye little mischty! We’ve not done wi’ ye yet.”

The girl feigned reluctance for a moment; then, running back to Mills, she seized the bottle from his hands and drank again. Quintal watched her with fascinated eyes, nervously clasping and unclasping his great hairy hands. By this time the others were in the mellow state of the first stages of a spree.

“Matt Quintal,” Martin exclaimed, “I’ll see no man sit by with a dry gullet! Ye’re perished for a drink, that’s plain. Come, have a sup.”

He passed over a bottle which Quintal accepted, hesitatingly. “Thank ’ee, Isaac. I’ll have a taste and no more.”

It was a generous taste that called for another, and yet another, freely offered by Mills and Martin. A few moments later Quintal reached across and seized the partly emptied bottle at McCoy’s side.