"A man to see me on a matter of business," Gilbert remembered. "Will you excuse me?" He turned to Pell.
"But I want to talk to you myself," the latter reminded him.
But young Jones had gone to the door. "I'm sorry. This is imperative, and I must see him." He turned definitely as if to go.
"But I was here first," Morgan Pell argued. He hated to be beaten by this stripling.
"I regret that I must insist," Gilbert said. And there was a duel of eyes, as well as of wits, before Jones turned away, easily the victor. After all, it was his own house, his own ranch. His visitor was wise enough to realize that. He walked over to the table and took the tequila bottle up again. "I'll have another drink, if you don't mind," he said, to Gilbert's back.
"Drink?" yelled Uncle Henry from his chair, frantic at the thought of any more of their precious liquor being consumed. It was hard enough to get, even when one had plenty of money.
"Help yourself," said Gilbert, not a little ashamed of the protest in Uncle Henry's voice.
"While I'm waiting," Pell laughed; and, taking the bottle, he went out.
Uncle Henry could scarcely control himself. He switched his chair in his nephew's direction. "Say," he wanted to know, "have you been holding out on me?"