overed, was Jake's favourite dish.

He rose, took two breakfast cups from a shelf and went over to the keg
in the corner. He filled up both of them to the brim.

"Have a drink, George?" he invited, offering me one of the cups.

"What is it?" I asked, thinking it might be a cider of some kind.

"What d'ye suppose, man?--ginger beer? It's good rye whiskey."

From the odour, I had ascertained this for myself before he spoke.

"No, thanks, Jake, I don't drink."

"Holy mackinaw!" he exclaimed, almost dropping the cups in his
astonishment. "If you don't drink, how in the Sam Hill are you going
to make it stick up here? Why, man, you'll go batty in the winter
time, for it's lonely as hell."

"From all accounts, Jake, hell is not a very lonely place," I laughed.

"Aw!--you know what I mean," he put in.

"I'll have plenty of work to do in the store; enough to keep me from
feeling lonely."

"Not you. Once it's goin', it'll be easy's rollin' off'n a log.
What'll you do o' nights, 'specially winter nights,--if you don't
drink?"

He sat down and began to empty his cup of liquor by the gulp.

His dog, which had been lying sullenly on the floor near the stove, got
up and ambled leisurely to Jake's feet. It looked up at him as he
drank, then it put its two front paws on Jake's knees, as if to attract
his attention.

Meaghan stopped his imbibing and stroked the dog's head.

"Well,--well--Mike; and did I forget you?"

He poured a little liquor in a saucer and set it down on the floor
before the dog, who lapped it up with all the relish of a seasoned
toper. Then it put its paws back on Jake's knees, as if asking for
more.

"No! Mike. Nothin' doin'. You've had your whack. Too much ain't
good for your complexion, old man."

In a sort of dreamy, contemplative mood the dog sat down on its
haunches between us.

"What'll you do o' nights if you don't drink? You ain't told me that,
George," reiterated Jake, sucking some of the liquor from his drooping
moustaches.

"Oh!" I replied, "I'll read, and sometimes I'll sit out and watch the
stars and listen to the sea and the wind."

"And what after that?" he queried.

"I can always think, when I have nothing else to do."

"And what after that?" he asked again.

"Nothing, Jake,--nothing. That's all."

"No it ain't. No it ain't, I tell you;--after that,--it's the bughouse
for yours. It's the thinking,--it's the thinking that does it every
time. It's the la