A querulous voice was damning Buck Peters. "Donner und Blitzen! Vas it my fault der verruchter bull break loose und ist hinaus gegangen? 'Yah!' says Buck, 'Yah!' loud, like dat. Mad?—mein gracious! Vot for is a bull, anyhow? 'Gimme my time,' I say; 'I go.' 'Gif you a goot kick,' says Buck; 'here, dake dis und get drunk und come back morgen.' I get drunk und go back und break his d—n neck—only for leetle Fritz."
"Leetle Fritz" sat swinging his legs, on the bar. He looked at his father with plain disapproval. "Ah, cheese it, Pap!" was his advice. "What's th' good o' gittin' drunk? Why can't you hol' y' likker like a man?"
A roar of laughter greeted this appeal, at which even Gerken smiled gleefully. He was glad that Fritz was smart, "une seine Mutter."
Dave pushed the Jack of Spades back into the pack. He arose and sauntered over to the bar. "That's th' way to talk, Pickles," he endorsed, tickling the boy playfully in the ribs. "Yo 're a-going to hold yore likker like a man, ain't you?"
"No sirree! Ther' ain't goin' to be any likker in mine. I promised mother."
"Bully for you!" Dave's admiration was genuine and the boy blushed at the compliment. Like many other rascals, Dave was easily admitted into the hearts of children and simple folk and women and dogs. Bruce, the collie, was nuzzling his hand at that moment and the broad, foolish face of Gottleib was beaming on him. "Hi, Slick! Pickles 'll have a lemonade. I 'll have a lemonade, too; better put a stick in mine, I 'm a-gettin' so 's I need one. An' Pap 'll have a lemonade, too—oh! with a stick, Pap, with a stick—I would n't go for to insult your stomach."
They drank their lemonades, Gottleib's face expressive of splinters, and a minute later Pickles sat alone while his father endeavored to win some of Dave's money and Dave endeavored to let him. Tex tilted his chair and with a fine disregard for alien fastidiousness, stuck his feet on the edge of the table and smiled. He almost crashed over backward at sight of a figure that entered the room from the hall. "God bless our Queen!" murmured Tex, "he 's a long way from 'ome. Must be a remittance man come over the line to call on Sandy."
H. Whitby Booth swept an appraising glance over the company and, without a pause, chose a seat next to Tex. "Surprisin' fine weather, isn't it?" he observed, taking a cigar-case from his pocket.
"My word!" agreed Tex, succinctly.
Whitby looked at him with suspicion. "Try a weed?" he invited.