After he had stood there for a few minutes, and had, presumably, recovered from the chill of the long ride, he stepped up to the bar and called for some whiskey. His manner was that of a man who is immersed in thought, and for the moment he seemed not to observe that there were others present.
Sam produced a bottle and a glass and set them on the bar, and Mr. Britton poured out a drink for a grown man. He did not know it, or it seemed as if he did not, but the eyes of the community were fixed upon him.
That is, eyes belonging to some eight or nine representative citizens of Brownsville were so fixed, and for one critical moment there appeared to be a strong probability that Mr. Britton would fail to establish himself on any footing which would entitle him to favourable consideration.
In some mysterious way he became aware of this without anything being said. Being, as he was, the focus of eight distinct glares of surprise, he became aware that something was wrong, and, pausing in the very act of lifting his glass, he looked slowly around, and then said, heartily enough:
“Excuse me, gentlemen. Won’t you join me?”
They would and they did, and it remained possible for Mr. Britton to make a good impression. The mere fact that he was unusual would not, of itself, damn him hopelessly, but the curious behaviour of a man who would come so near a fatal breach of etiquette in apparent unconsciousness, was enough to raise a doubt, and while the doubt remained Brownsville was not likely to make overtures.
Jim Bixby, the stage-driver, had swallowed his liquor and gone outside to attend to his horses, and, after an interchange of glances among some of the others in the room, Larry Hennessy slouched out through the door and was lost to sight.
Making his way to the stable, where Bixby was rubbing his horses down, he stood for a few moments looking on. Presently he said:
“Thot mon inside, yonder. Is he a La Crosse man, I don’t know?”
Bixby finished with one horse and began on the other before he answered. Then he said: