"I'll see about it now," Jones promised.
"Haven't got a drink, have you, while we're waiting? Not that I need an
appetizer! And it's damned hot, I know, to guzzle whiskey."
"There's nothing good in the place. But I think the cook has some tequila."
"Tequila? What's that, Jones?"
"It's a Mexican drink."
"Has it got a kick in it?" the other wanted to know.
"I never heard anybody complain," Gilbert smiled. "After two or three of
'em, I never saw anybody able to complain!"
He started toward the kitchen.
"What does it taste like?" said Pell, detaining him.
"Oh, sort of like gasoline with bichloride of mercury in it," Jones
answered his eager questioner.
"No wood alcohol?" suspiciously. Pell was always looking out for himself.
"Oh, it's safe enough, I assure you. Would you like to try some of it?"
Gilbert suggested.
Pell thought a moment--but only a moment. "I'll try anything once, and
anything to drink more than once--if I'm alive the second time."
His host smiled. "I'll get you some if there's any left," and went to the
kitchen to see. He couldn't help wondering why a man like Morgan Pell,
with so many responsibilities, should wish to drink tequila.
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