“No,” replied the bar-keeper sullenly, “I’ll not drink to any damned foolishness. An’ Zeke won’t neither.”
“Oh, yes, he will,” Williams returned persuasively, “and so’ll you, Joe. You aren’t goin’ back on me.”
“No, I’ll be just damned if I am,” said the barkeeper, half-conquered.
“What’ll you take, sir?” Williams asked me.
“The bar-keeper knows my figger,” I answered, half-jestingly, not yet understanding the situation, but convinced that it was turning out better than I had expected.
“And you, Zeke?” he went on.
“The old pizen,” Zeke replied.
“And now, Joe, whisky for you and me—the square bottle,” he continued, with brisk cheerfulness.
In silence the bar-keeper placed the drinks before us. As soon as the glasses were empty Williams spoke again, putting out his hand to Zeke at the same time:
“Good-bye, old man, so long, but saddle up in two hours. Ef I don’t come then, you kin clear; but I guess I’ll be with you.”