Still Truxton did not lift his head, did
not even mutter as a drunken man is apt to do in his stupor. With the
full purport of this thing upon him, Conniston was driven to a fury of
rage. He jerked Truxton's head back and slapped him across the face
until his fingers tingled. Now Truxton's eyes opened, red-rimmed,
bloodshot, fixed in a vacant, idiotic stare. And before Conniston
could speak the eyes were closed again, the head had sunk forward upon
the table.
"My God!" cried Conniston, feeling now only a great despair upon him,
seeing only the death to all hopes of success for the reclamation
project with Truxton lost to it. He started to leave the tent, and
suddenly swung about again, grasping Truxton's two shoulders in his
hands.
"It ain't no go, pardner. He's very--hic--drunk!"
He had not seen the other man, had seen little enough but the
sprawling, inert figure. It was the camp cook. And as Conniston turned
upon him he saw that this man's face was flushed, that he was little
better than Truxton. And if he needed further indication of the reason
for the cook's plight it was not far to seek. The man held in his left
hand, thrust clumsily behind him, a third bottle, half empty.
"You, too!" shouted Conniston. "Drop that bottle, and drop it quick!"
The cook, with a drunken assumption of dignity, tried to straighten
up, grasping his bottle the more firmly.
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