Down went the drinks; down plopped the glasses.
"Your turn to fill them, Deacon," said Butcher.
Solemn-faced and taciturn, Howard Best silently filled the glasses, his
white, scrawny hands tense. He was the sober-minded member of the group. The
sobriquet of "Deacon" fitted him like a slipper. He appeared years older than
Butcher. Standing next to the huge man, Deacon looked very lean and withered.
"To Maurice Exton, the best of luck and health!"
Thus chimed the third toast; and after it the jocular order:
"Pour it out, Major! Don't be stingy with the bottle!"
Maurice Exton - the one called "Major" - was a medium-sized man in his
late thirties. His hair was black, his features sallow. A neat mustache that
matched his hair adorned his upper lip. A Van Dyke tipped his chin. His
shoulders were erect, and had a military bearing. He filled the glasses with
steady hands.
Then came the toast to the fourth of the group:
"To Joel Hawkins, the best of luck and health!"
After the passing of this last toast, there was momentary silence.
Then Deacon turned to Joel Hawkins and said:
"Don't forget the glasses, Ferret. There's another one coming up."
"That's right," replied "Ferret," with a wry grin. "Did you think I
forgot?"
Joel Hawkins leaned forward with a shrewd, gleaming grin. Short,
stoop-shouldered, so as to almost appear deformed, the name of Ferret was apt.
The man's eyes peered sharply through partly closed lids. Handling the bottle
with his face on a level with the glasses, he seemed to be measuring each drink
so that all would be exactly the same.
Major picked up his glass and stood, while the other three followed him to
their feet.
"To David Traver!" he said, in an even voice.
"To David Traver," came the chorus, "the best of luck and health!"
The men drank this final toast more slowly. Their glasses swung down one
by one.
As they resumed their seats, they looked about with satisfaction.
"Well, we've remembered Judge," declared Butcher.
"Judge has remembered us," said Deacon quietly.
THE conversation took a new turn now that the strange formality had
reached its end.
"New York in the morning. The end of the trail," announced Butcher, with a
broad smile. "All on deck at seven. We want to take a look at the Statue of
Liberty!"
"Let the old gal take a look at us!" cackled Ferret.
"It's all the same to me," said Major. "What I'm thinking about is the few
bottles that we might carry in. Judge would appreciate hearing our toast, when
we see him."
"Deacon's the boy to lug in the grog," said Ferret cunningly. "He could
pack it under his coat. There's plenty of room around that spindle shape of
his. Lend him one of your coats, Butcher."
"Why worry about it?" questioned Butcher. "Like enough Judge will have a
