“Sworn off your reg'lar pizen?”
“My physician,” said Bill gravely, “hez ordered me dry champagne every three hours.”
Nevertheless, the bar-keeper lingered.
“Who's that you're dry-nussin' up there?”
I regret that I may not give Yuba Bill's literal reply. It suggested a form of inquiry at once distant, indirect, outrageous, and impossible.
The bar-keeper flashed a lantern upon Jeff's curls and his drooping eyelashes and mustaches.
“It's that son o' Briggs o' Tuolumne—pooty boy, ain't he?”
Bill disdained a reply.
“Played himself out down there, I reckon. Left his rifle here in pawn.”
“Young man,” said Bill gravely.