At the end of the reel, Elam Harnish called the house up to drink again.

Drinks were a dollar apiece, gold rated at sixteen dollars an ounce; there were thirty in the house that accepted his invitation, and between every dance the house was Elam's guest.

This was his night, and nobody was to be allowed to pay for anything.
Not that Elam Harnish was a drinking man.

Whiskey meant little to him.
He was too vital and robust, too untroubled in mind and body, to incline to the slavery of alcohol.

He spent months at a time on trail and river when he drank nothing stronger than coffee, while he had gone a year at a time without even coffee.