The latter did not see him.

One of the men with Owen did see Sanderson, though, and he looked up impudently, and smilingly pushed a filled glass of amber-colored liquor toward Owen.
"You ain't half drinkin', Owen," he said.
Sanderson reached over, took the glass, threw its contents on the floor and grasped Owen by the shoulder.

His gaze met the tempter's, coldly.
"My friend ain't drinkin' no more tonight," he declared.
The tempter sneered, his body stiffening.
"He ain't, eh ?" he grinned, insolently.

"I reckon you don't know him; he likes whisky as a fish likes water." Several men in the vicinity guffawed loudly.
Owen was drunk.

His hair was rumpled, his face was flushed, and his eyes were bleared and wide with an unreasoning, belligerent light as he got up, swaying unsteadily, and looked at Sanderson.
"Not drink any more ?" he demanded loudly.