Leaky Pup

It was down South in a dry state. The railroad station was packed with a party on their way to a football game. Over at one side of the waiting room stood Baxter, a quiet little man, fidgeting about and attempting to hide himself from the crowd.
A federal agent, assigned to this moonshine-making area, noticed that Baxter had something under his jacket from which drops were falling in slow trickles. The fed, with a gleam in his eye, walked over to him, put a finger out under one of the drops, caught one, and tasted it.
"Scotch?" he asked.
"Nope," said Baxter. "Airedale pup."

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