Clensy and Adams still stared on the man with their mouths wide open.
“Give us some flea powder, youngster!”
Just for a moment Clensy continued to stare at those sombre yet humorous-looking eyes, then he picked up the tin of powder and courteously handed it to the big man.
“Got any baccy? Don’t stand there with yer goddamned mouths open; hand the weed up!”
At this new demand, Adams and Clensy, like two obedient children, felt quickly in their pockets and handed their giant-like bedroom companion their pouches. They couldn’t help it! The strange eyes were magnetic, the light in them not only compelled Clensy and Adams to accede to their owner’s request, but also gave them pleasure at being able to supply his wants!
“And who may you be?” asked Clensy quietly as he recovered his composure.
“I’m Samuel Bartholomew Biglow! that’s my handle!” roared the boisterous stranger. Then he half emptied their pouches, threw them on the floor, and carefully pressed his thumb into his corn-cob pipe.
“So that’s your name, and it’s a suitable one,” Clensy ventured to say; then he smiled, for he vaguely realised that a man had a right to call himself by any name he wished, especially one with such a commanding personality and giant-like proportions.
“I like the look of ye both, damned if I don’t,” said the stranger; then he well sprinkled his bunk with the flea powder and tossed Clensy back the tin.
“And what might your name be?” he said, as he gave Adams a mighty languishing glance.