“But I don’t—” began Johnson in protest.
“Say,” interrupted the Girl, falling back into her favourite position of resting both elbows on the bar, her face in her hands, “I’ve got you figgered out. You’re awful good or awful bad.” A remark which seemed to amuse the man, for he laughed heartily.
“Now, what do you mean by that?” presently he asked.
“Well, I mean so good that you’re a teetotaller, or so bad that you’re tired o’ life an’ whisky.”
Johnson shook his head.
“On the contrary, although I’m not good, I’ve lived and I’ve liked life pretty well. It’s been bully!”
Surprised and delighted with his enthusiasm, the Girl raised her eyes to his, which look he mistook—not unnaturally after all that had been said—for one of encouragement. A moment more and the restraint that he had exercised over himself had vanished completely.
“So have you liked it, Girl,” he went on, trying vainly to get possession of her hand, “only you haven’t lived, you haven’t lived—not with your nature. You see I’ve got a quick eye, too.”
To Johnson’s amazement she flushed and averted her face. Following the direction of her eyes he saw Nick standing in the door with a broad grin on his face.