“Excuse me,” he said, politely and reached for Hockley’s collar. “It’s a pinching bug, I guess,” and he threw the bug on the floor and crushed it with his foot.
Of course Hockley thanked the stranger for his kindness and then, as the latter was not drinking, asked him to have something. The invitation was promptly accepted, and in return the stranger also treated.
“My name is Brown,” he said. “J. Rutherford Brown, and I am from Montana. I take it you are a newcomer in Ponce.”
“I am,” answered Hockley, and told his name and mentioned the party of which he was a member. “It’s rather slow, traveling around with those other fellows,” he added. “I want to see some sport.”
“Of course,” rejoined J. Rutherford Brown, enthusiastically. “I like a little sport myself.”
More talk followed, and in the end it was agreed that the pair should go on a little trip of their own, down the seashore, to a resort where, according to the man from Montana, a “bang up, good, all around time” could be had. “I’ll show you some real life,” said J. Rutherford Brown. “Nothing like it anywhere.”
They were soon on the way, in a carriage the man from Montana insisted on engaging. The route lay out of Ponce proper and along a seaside drive to where some enterprising American hotel men had erected several buildings, devoted partly to keeping boarders but mostly to gambling.
The man from Montana had brought a flask of liquor with him, and he insisted on treating, so that by the time the resort he had in mind was reached poor Hockley was in anything but a clear state mentally. He felt strangely elated.
“This is all right,” he repeated several times. “You’re a good fellow, Brown, a fine fellow. Glad we met. You’ll lose nothing on me, no, sir. I’ve got money, I have, and I mean to spend it.”
“That’s all right, but I insist on paying my own way,” answered J. Rutherford Brown, smoothly. “I’ve got money myself.”