Casey Ryan liked his hootch with a hoot in it.
He was still hooting (somewhat incoherently it is true, with recourse now and then to the bottle because he was sick and he didn't give a darn who knew it) when the door opened and he whom they called Mart walked in.

Joe introduced him to Casey, who sat still upon the bench and looked him over with drunken disparagement.

Casey had a hazy recollection of wanting to see the boss and have it out with him, but he could not recall what it was that he had been so anxious to quarrel about.
Mart was a slender man of middle height, with thin, intelligent face and a look across the eyes like the old woman who rocked in the stone hut.

He glanced from the bottle to Casey, eyeing him sharply.

Drunk or sober, Casey was not the man to be stared down; nevertheless his fingers strayed involuntarily to his shirt collar and pulled fussily at the wrinkles.
"So you're the man they've been holding here for my inspection," Mart said coolly, with a faint smile at Casey's evident discomfort.