The young man looked up quickly and the card players stopped as suddenly in their play, for Old Man Johnson was a fighter in his cups. But at last the stranger showed signs of friendliness. As the old man finished speaking he rose with the decorum of the drawing-room and extended his white hand cordially.
“I’m very glad to meet you, Mr. Johnson,” he said. “Won’t you sit down?”
“No,” protested the old man, “I do’ wanner sit down––I wanner ask you a question.” He reeled, and balanced himself against a chair. “I wanner ask you,” he continued, with drunken gravity, “on the squar’, now, did you ever drink?”
“Why, yes, Uncle,” replied the younger man, smiling at the question, “I used to take a friendly glass, once in a while––but I don’t drink now.” He added the last with a finality not to be mistaken, but Mr. Johnson of Hell’s Hip Pocket was not there to urge him on.
“No, no,” he protested. “You’re mistaken, Mister––er––Mister––”
“Hardy,” put in the little man.
“Ah yes––Hardy, eh? And a dam’ good name, 23 too. I served under a captain by that name at old Fort Grant, thirty years ago. Waal, Hardy, I like y’r face––you look honest––but I wanner ask you ’nuther question––why don’t you drink now, then?”
Hardy laughed indulgently, and his eyes lighted up with good humor, as if entertaining drunken men was his ordinary diversion.
“Well, I’ll tell you, Mr. Johnson,” he said. “If I should drink whiskey the way you folks down here do, I’d get drunk.”
“W’y sure,” admitted Old Man Johnson, sinking shamelessly into a chair. “I’m drunk now. But what’s the difference?”