“Straight goods and the best you’ve got,” my self-appointed pilot blared. “None o’ your agency whiskey, either. What’s yourn?” he asked of me.
“The same as yours, sir,” I bravely replied.
With never a word the bartender shoved bottle and glasses to us. Jim rather unsteadily filled; I emulated, but to scanter measure.
“Here’s how,” he volunteered. “May you never see the back of your neck.”
“Your health,” I responded.
We drank. The stuff may have been pure; at least it was stout and cut fiery way down my unwonted throat; the one draught infused me with a swagger and a sudden rosy view of life through a temporary mist of watering eyes. 109
“A-ah! That puts guts into a man,” quoth Jim. “Shall we have another? One more?”
“Not now. The next shall be on me. Let’s look around,” I gasped.
“We’ll find her,” he promised. “Take a stroll. I’ll steer you right. Have a seegar, anyway.”
As smoking vied with drinking, here in the Big Tent where even the dancers cavorted with lighted cigars in their mouths, I saw fit to humor him.