“Regalias, Auroas and Eurekas,” reeled off the Girl with her eye upon Billy Jackrabbit, who had quietly come in and was sneaking about in an endeavour to find something worth pilfering.
“Oh, any will do,” Ashby told her, with a smile; and while he was helping himself from a box of Regalias, Nick suddenly appeared, calling out excitedly:
“Man jest come in threatenin’ to shoot up the furniture!”
“Who is it?” calmly inquired the Girl, returning the cigar-box to its place on the shelf.
“Old man Watson!”
“Leave ’im shoot,—he’s good for it!”
“Nick! Nick!” yelled several voices in the dance-hall where old man Watson was surely having the time of his life.
And still the Girl paid not the slightest attention to the shooting or the cries of the men; what did concern her, however, was the fact that the Indian was drinking up the dregs in the whisky glasses on the faro table.
“Here, you, Billy Jackrabbit! What are you doin’ here?” she exclaimed sharply, causing that generally imperturbable redskin to start perceptibly. “Did you marry my squaw yet?”
Billy Jackrabbit’s face wore as stolid an expression as ever, when he answered: