As Bill reached the desk and lifted the top, another gray-haired old man, possibly the same age as Lightnin', though larger and huskier in build, stole in through the street door and stood there doubtfully, puffing a cigar. He looked about fearfully, evidently ready to decamp at an instant's notice; but his glance, traveling back to the figure at the desk, bespoke a childlike trustfulness in Bill Jones. This gentleman's clothes were as disreputable as might be, as was his battered slouch-hat. His face was very red and very unshaven, and his expression was a comical mixture of uncertainty as to his welcome on the premises and maudlin kindliness toward the world at large. He rejoiced in the name of "Zeb," and was a down-and-out prospector, a relic of the past. His only reason for existence these days seemed to be that he was a crony and devout satellite of Bill's—to the great aggravation of Mrs. Jones. There was a legend in the district that Zeb and Bill had spent many years together in the old days, up and down the trails. There seemed to be considerable truth in the story. Anyway, no efforts of Mrs. Jones's or of anybody else's could make Bill forget his pal. Zeb was always sure of a meal, or a drink and a cigar, provided Lightnin' could find a way of producing those necessities of a broken-down prospector's life.
Bill felt around in the desk for a minute, while Zeb watched, fearfully, hopefully; then Lightnin' turned around, disappointment in his face. But before he could break the sad news regarding the strange disappearance of a half-filled flask, Zeb held up a warning finger and began to back through the door. His ear, ever keen for the swish of Mrs. Jones's skirts, reported danger.
"What's the matter, Zeb?" Bill asked. "Aw, come back. What ye 'fraid of?" With a disgusted motion he beckoned Zeb into the room again.
But Zeb, answering the warning that had never failed him, stayed close to the door, whispering back to Bill, "Where's your old woman?"
"That's all right. Come on in. She ain't here now." Bill, determined in his search, lifted the lid a second time and began to take out the contents of the drawer.
Zeb, taking heart, tiptoed up to him and, looking over his shoulder, murmured, contemptuously, "I don't believe you've got a drop."
"I'll show ye!" Looking intently under the lid, Bill's voice was half smothered. It stopped short when the kitchen door flew open and Mrs. Jones burst with emphatic and quick tread into the room.
She did not pay heed to Bill at once. Zeb received the full force of her mood. "Clear out now!" she called, in no gentle tone, as she swept up to him—an unnecessary action, as Zeb, catching one glance of the irate woman, made double-quick time in getting out of the door and down the steps of the veranda.
Zeb disposed of, Mrs. Jones turned her attention to her errant husband. Both arms akimbo, she stood still in the middle of the floor and concentrated her glare upon him.
"Bill Jones," she asked, in a loud, rasping tone, "where have you been?"