He mopped his face. It was warm, though the windows and doors were open.
"Well, nobody's going to play any more with you," snapped Max. "You bore 'em."
He pyramided the balls and covered the table. With a sad and lingering backward look Pringle slouched abjectly through the wide-arched doorway to the bar.
"Come on, fellers—have something."
"Naw!" snarled José Espalin. "I'm a-tryin' to theenk. Shut up, won't you?"
Pringle sighed patiently at the rebuff and stole a timid glance at the thinker. Espalin was a lean little, dried-up manikin, with legs, arms, and mustaches disproportionately long for his dwarfish body. His black, wiry hair hung in ragged witchlocks; his black pin-point eyes were glittering, cold, and venomous. He looked, thought Pringle, very much like a spider.
"I'm steerin' you right, old man," said Creagan. "You'd better drag it for bed."
"I ain't sleepy, I tell you."
Espalin leaped up, snarling.
"Say! You lukeing for troubles, maybe? Bell, I theenk thees hombre got a gun. Shall we freesk him?"