“I’m in much the same fix,” said the cattle-man. “I’ve got a flask of prime old whiskey here, but it don’t seem like it’s very appropriate for the occasion, though it’s at the service of any of you gents.”
“Never seen no occasion in which whiskey wasn’t appropriate,” said the cow-boy, mellowing at the sight of the flask.
“I mean ’taint fit for kids,” explained the cattle-man handing it over.
“I begun on’t rather early,” remarked the puncher, taking a long drink, “an’ I always use it when my feelin’s is onsettled, like now.” He handed it back with a sigh.
“Never mind, boys,” said the drummer. “You all come along with me to the baggage car.”
So off we trooped. He opened his trunks, and spread before us such a glittering array of trash and trinkets as almost took away our breath.
“There,” he said, “look at that. We’ll just pick out the best things from the lot, and I’ll donate them all.”
“No, you don’t,” said the cow-boy. “My ante’s in on this game, an’ I’m goin’ to buy what chips I want, an’ pay fer ’em too, else there ain’t going to be no Christmas around here.”
“That’s my judgment, too,” said the cattle-man.
“I think that will be fair,” said I. “The travelling man can donate what he pleases, and we can each of us buy what we please, as well.”