"See you got yore name in the paper," he observed, but Pecos only grunted. Curiosity is an attribute of the child—and besides, he was more interested in his pie. It had always been an ambition of his to have pie three times a day, and the steady round of beef, bread, and coffee incidental to life on the range had made that hope seem a dream dear enough almost to justify matrimony. At least, he had never expected to attain to it any other way; but Hung Wo was a good cook, when he wanted to be. To serve two prison meals a day for fourteen cents and a profit meant pretty close figuring, and the patrons of Hung Wo's downtown restaurant needed to have no compunctions about leaving a part of their bounteous dinner untouched—the guests of the Hotel de Morgan were not supposed to be superstitious about eating "come-backs." It would be a poor Chinaman who could not feed you on ten cents a day, if you didn't care what you ate. But Pecos cared, and he cast a glance that was almost benevolent upon his faithful pie-maker as he tucked the Blade into his shirt.
"That's good pie, Charley," he said approvingly. "Some day when you ketchum big hurry I make him boy wash dishes."
"Allite," responded Hung Wo, "you likee kek?"
"Sure thing! You savvey makum cake?"
"Me makum kek, pie, cha'lotte lusse, custa'd, plenty mo'!" declaimed Charley, with pride.
"Sure! I know you! You keep big restaurant—down by Turf Saloon, hey? I eat there, one time—heap good!"
"You tlink so?" beamed the child-like Oriental. "Allite, next time me bingum kek!" He gathered up the tin pannikins and departed, radiant, while Pecos crouched peacefully on his heels against the corridor bars.
"Say, they's a piece about you in that paper," volunteered Todhunter, as he jerked open the cell doors, "that young feller that was here last night wrote it up."
"Aw, to hell with 'im," growled Pecos scornfully; but at the same time he was interested. Life within prison walls is not very exciting—there is lots of company, but not of the best, and any man who does not want to hear dirty stories or learn how "mooching" and "scoffing" is done, or the details of the jungle life, is likely in time to become lonely. Already he was hungry for the outdoor life—the beating of the hot sun, the tug of the wind, the feel of the saddle between his knees—but alas, he was doomed to spend his unprofitable days in jail, a burden to himself and society! Six months in jail, before he could come before the grand jury and have his trial—six months, and it had not yet been six days. He drew the morning Blade from his bosom and examined it carefully, searching vainly through editorial columns and patent insides until at last he caught the heading: "Jail Strike a Failure. Bad Man from Verde Crossing Makes Prisoners Clean Up." Then he read the article through carefully, mumbling over the big words in the hope of sensing their meaning and lingering long over his name in print. At the allusion to the Voice of Reason he flushed hot with indignation; muttered curses greeted the name of Sheriff Morgan; but every time he came to "Mr. Dalhart" he smiled weakly and nursed his young mustache. But after he had finished he went back and gazed long and intently at his full name as given at the beginning:—"Mr. Pecos Q. Dalhart"—Pecos Q.! He read the entire paper over carefully and came back to it again; and that evening, when Mr. Baker of the Blade strolled in, he beckoned him sternly to the bars.