into the liquor room by the simple method of pretending an
assault upon him by way of the storeroom window, which could be barred
from without by heavy planks. Secure in his belief in Ford's friendship
for him, Sandy even volunteered to slam the door shut upon Ford and lock
it with the padlock which guarded the room from robbery. Tom took a chew
of tobacco, decided that the ruse might work, and donated the planks for
the window.

It did work, up to a certain point. Ford heard a noise in the storeroom
and went to investigate, caught a glimpse of Tom Aldershot apparently
about to climb through the little window, and hurled a hammer and
considerable vituperation at the opening. Whereupon Sandy scuttled in
and slammed the door, according to his own plan, and locked it. There
was a season of frenzied hammering outside, and after that Sunset
breathed freer, and discussed the evils of strong drink, and washed down
their arguments by copious draughts of the stuff they maligned.

Later, they had to take him out of the storeroom, because he insisted
upon knocking the bungs out of all the barrels and letting the liquor
flood the floor, and Mike McGrew's wife objected to the waste, on the
ground that whisky costs money. They fell upon him in a body, bundled
him up, hustled him over to the ice-house, and shut him in; and within
ten minutes he kicked three boards off one side and emerged breathing
fire and brimstone like the dragons of old. He had forgotten about
wanting to kill Sam; he was willing--nay, anxious--to murder every male
human in Sunset.

They did not know what to do with him after that. They liked Ford when
he was sober, and so they hated to shoot him, though that seemed the
only way in which they might dampen his enthusiasm for blood. Tom said
that, if he failed to improve in temper by the next day, he would try
and land him in jail, though it did seem rigorous treatment for so
common a fault as getting drunk. Meanwhile they kept out of his way as
well as they could, and dodged missiles and swore. Even that was
becoming more and more difficult--except the swearing--because Ford
developed a perfectly diabolic tendency to empty every store that
contained a man, so that it became no uncommon sight to see a back door
belching forth hurrying figures at the most unseasonable times. No man
could lift a full glass, that night, and feel sure of drinking the
contents undisturbed; whereat Sunset grumbled while it dodged.

It