They found the proprietor in his stocking feet, getting the breakfast, and Mr. Cassidy regarded the preparations with open approval. He counted the tin plates and found only three, and, thinking that there would be more plates if there were others to feed, glanced into the landlord's room. Not finding signs of other guests, on whom to lay the blame for the loss of his horse, he began to ask questions.
“Much trade?” He inquired solicitously.
“Yep,” replied the landlord.
Mr. Cassidy looked at the three tins and wondered if there had ever been any more with which to supply his trade. “Been out this morning?” he pursued.
“Nope.”
“Talks purty nigh as much as Buck,” thought Mr. Cassidy, and then said aloud, “Anybody else here?”
“Nope.”
Mr. Cassidy lapsed into a painful and disgusted silence and his friend tried his hand.
“Who owns a mosaic bronch, Chinee flag on th' near side, Skillet brand?” asked Mr. Connors.
“Quien sabe?”