Sutton, remembering the dirty hand, took it, gagging silently. Cautiously, he lifted it and tipped it to his mouth.
The stuff splashed into his mouth and gurgled down his throat and it was liquid fire laced with gall and with a touch of brimstone to give it something extra.
Sutton snatched the jug away and held it by the handle, keeping his mouth wide open to cool it and air out the taste.
The old man took it back and Sutton swabbed at the tears running down his cheeks.
"Ain't aged the way she should be," the old man apologized. "But I ain't got the time to fool around with that."
He took himself a hooker, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and whooshed out his breath in gusty satisfaction. A butterfly, fluttering past, dropped stone-dead.
The old man put out a foot and pushed at the butterfly.
"Feeble thing," he said.
He put the jug down again and worked the cork in tight.
"Stranger, ain't you?" he asked Sutton. "Don't recall seeing you around."