Told yuh, didn't I?
Gittin' the best of yuh, ain't it?
C'mon--I'll show yuh how it's made." "Take a barr'l t' git the besta--Casey Ry'n," Casey boasted, his words blurring noticeably.

"Where's y'r White Mule?
Let 'er kick--Casey Ry'n can lead 'er an' tame 'er--an' make'r eat outa 's hand!" Following Joe, Casey stepped high over a rock no bigger than his fist.
With a lurch he straightened and tried to pull his muddled wits out of the fog that was fast enveloping them.

Dimly he sensed the importance of this discovery which Joe had forced upon him.

In flashes of normalcy he knew that he must see all he could of their moonshine operations.
He must let them think he was drunk until he knew all their secrets.
He assured himself vaguely that he must, above all things, keep his head.
But it was all pretty hazy and rapidly growing hazier.

Casey Ryan, you must know, was not what is informally termed a drinking man.