“’T ain’t me. It’s you, The love o’ power air devourin’ you to that extent you can’t serve a man his rations without cuttin’ ’em short. It were plumb tyrannical in you to send me that there message about the gin.”
Mrs. Hallard’s handsome black eyes surveyed him coldly.
“When a gent’s that far in he goes howlin’ a lady’s Christian name in public like you done just now,” she said, “it’s a sign he don’t need no more at present. There’s your change, Tombstone. Now vâmose!”
“Jake Lowrey!” she sent her voice level across the reeking room to where a big, shaggy miner was disputing with one of the Chinamen, “This here’s an eatin’-house. ’T ain’t a cussin’ bee. If you don’t like the victuals served you, you know what you kin do. But while you’re in here you quit swearin’.”
“I ain’t a cussin’ fer cussin’s sake,” the big miner pleaded, above the laughter of the others. “I’m only inquirin’ into the nature o’ this here sunny-side Fat’s fetched me with my hash.”
“What color is it?” the proprietor of the eating-house asked, and the egg on Jake’s plate immediately became the center of all attention.
“It’s yeller,” its owner called, surveying it critically.
“Naw ’t ain’t neither; it’s red,” another observer decided.
“It’s a lie. It’s just the color of an orange, an’ oranges is yeller, ain’t they?” This from a third critic.
“If it’s yeller it’s a new-laid egg,” Mrs. Hallard pronounced, judicially. “If it’s red, it’s a fresh egg. Any other hen-fruit in this place is ranch eggs, unless it’s chickens, an’ we don’t serve them on the half-shell.”