You've got more aboard now than you can carry." To the injury of being denied another beer was added the insult of suggesting his inability to carry what he had.

This to a man of McCuaig's experience in every bar and camp and roadhouse from Edmonton to the Arctic circle, was not to be endured.
He leaned over the improvised bar, until his face almost touched the corporal's.
"What ?" he ejaculated, but in the single expletive there darted out such concentrated fury, that the little corporal sprang back as from a striking snake.
"You can't have any more beer, McCuaig," said the corporal, from a safe distance.
"Watch me, sonny!" replied McCuaig.
With a single sweep of his hand, he snatched two bottles from the ledge behind the corporal's head.

Holding one aloft, he knocked the top off the other, drank its contents slowly and smashed the empty bottle at the spot where the corporal's head had been; knocked the top off the second bottle and was proceeding to drink it, in a more or less leisurely fashion.
"Private Timms! Private Mulligan!" shouted Corporal Ferry, reappearing from beneath the counter.

"Arrest that man!" "Wait, sonny; give me a chance," cried McCuaig, in a wild, high, singsong voice.

Lifting his bottle to his lips, he continued to drink slowly, keeping his eye upon the two privates, who were considering the best method of carrying out their orders.
"There, sonny, fill that up again," cried McCuaig, good-naturedly, when he had finished his drink, tossing the second bottle at the head of the corporal, who, being on the alert, again made a successful disappearance.
"Now, then, boys, come on," said McCuaig, backing toward the wall, and dropping his hands to his hips.