“Hey, young feller,” he said, jerking his hand arbitrarily, “come over here. Come over here, I said––I want to talk with you!”
For a moment the man in the corner looked up in 19 well-bred surprise; then without attempting to argue the point he arose and made his way to the bar.
“What’s the matter with you, anyway?” demanded Brady roughly. “Are you too good to drink with the likes of us?”
The stranger lowered his eyes before the domineering gaze of his inquisitor and shifted his feet uneasily.
“I don’t drink with anybody,” he said at last. “And if you had any other waiting-room in your hotel,” he added, “I’d keep away from your barroom altogether. As it is, maybe you wouldn’t mind leaving me alone.”
At this retort, reflecting as it did upon the management, Black Tex began to breathe heavily and sway upon his feet.
“I asked you,” he roared, thumping his fist upon the bar and opening up his eyes, “whether you are too good to drink with the likes of us––me, f’r instance––and I want to git an answer!”
He leaned far out over the bar as if listening for the first word before he hit him, but the stranger did not reply immediately. Instead, with simple-minded directness he seemed to be studying on the matter. The broad grin of the card players fell to a wondering stare and every man leaned forward when, raising his sombre eyes from the floor, the little man spoke.
“Why, yes,” he said quietly, “I think I am.”