Black Matt and Tom Morrisey merely held on to each other and lifted their clumsy-booted feet in what seemed a grotesque, elephantine dance.

They were too drunk to fight.

Then the peacemakers got hold of them and led them back to cement the new friendship in the kitchen.
Soon they were all talking at once, rumbling and roaring as big-chested open-air men will, when whisky has whipped their taciturnity.

And I, a little shaver of seven, my heart in my mouth, my trembling body strung tense as a deer's on the verge of flight, peered wonderingly in at the open door and learned more of the strangeness of men.

And I marvelled at Black Matt and Tom Morrisey, sprawled over the table, arms about each other's necks, weeping lovingly.
The kitchen-drinking continued, and the girls outside grew timorous.
They knew the drink game, and all were certain that something terrible was going to happen.