nk.
While it was true that she had never partaken of it beyond an occasional
cocktail before dinner, it was common enough in the circle in which she
had moved. She was used to seeing the men of her acquaintance drink
whisky-and-sodas, and many of her intimate girl friends drank enough to
harden their eyes and injure their complexions. She herself had always
regarded it tolerantly, thinking that much of the hue and cry that had
been raised about it was sheer sentimentality and absurdity. She didn't
know that evil genii dwelt in the dark waters that could change men into
brutes: such mild exhilaration as she had received from an unusually
potent cocktail had only seemed harmless and amusing.

But she was not tolerant now. She was suddenly deeply afraid. She
looked at Bill, forgetting for the moment that in his blindness he could
not see what was occurring and that in his helplessness she could not
depend upon him in a crisis. She turned to Harold, hoping that he would
refuse this offering at a word. And her fear increased when she saw the
craving on his face.

Harold had gone a long time without strong drink. The sight of the dark
bottles woke his old passion for it in a flash. His blood leaped, a
strange and dreadful eagerness transcended him. Virginia was horrified
at the sudden, insane light in his eyes, the drawing of his features.

"Have a drink?" Joe invited.

Bill started then, but he made no response. Harold moved toward the
table.

"You're a real life-saver, Wolfpaw," he replied genially. "It's a cold
night, and I don't care if I do. Virginia, pass down the cups."

Of course there were not enough cups to go around. There were three of
tin, however, counting one that Bill made from an empty can. "You'll
drink?" Joe asked Bill.

The woodsman's face was grave. "Wolfpaw, it's against the law of this
province to give or receive liquor from Indians," he replied gravely.
"I won't drink to-night."

Pete turned with a scowl. His thought had already flashed to the white
blade at his belt. "You're damn particular----" he began.

But Joe shook his head, restraining him. The hour to strike had not yet
come. They must enjoy their liquor first and engender fresh courage
from its fire. He saw fit, however, to glance about the room and locate
the weapon of which Harold had spoken,--the deadly miner's pick that
leaned against the wall back of the stove.

Curiously, Virginia's thought had flung to t