Silas Bingham was an undersized, timid, pulpy soul, with a horizontal forehead, watery blue eyes, and a receding chin. Out of “office hours” he looked like a meek solicitor for a Sunday School magazine. One bright morning just as he had finished sweeping out the saloon and was polishing the brass rod on the front of the bar, Mrs. Burke walked in, and extended her hand to the astonished bar-keeper, whose chin dropped from sheer amazement. She introduced herself in the most cordial and sympathetic of tones, saying:
“How do you do, Mr. Bingham? I haven’t had the pleasure of meetin’ you before; but I always make it a point to call on strangers when they come to town. It must be awful lonesome when you first arrive and don’t know a livin’ soul. I hope your wife is tolerable well.”
Bingham gradually pulled himself together and turned very red, as he replied:
“Thanks! But my wife doesn’t live here. It’s awful kind of you, I’m sure; but you’ll find my wife in the third house beyond the bakery, down two 193 blocks—turn to the right. She’ll be glad to see you.”
“That’s good,” Hepsey responded, “but you see I don’t have much to do on Thursdays, and I’ll just have a little visit with you, now I’m here. Fine day, isn’t it.”
Mrs. Burke drew up a chair and sat down, adjusted her feet comfortably to the rung of another chair, and pulled out her knitting from her work-bag, much to the consternation of the proprietor of the place.
“How nice you’ve got things fixed up, Mr. Bingham,” Hepsey remarked, gazing serenely at the seductive variety of bottles and glasses, and the glare of mirrors behind the bar. “Nothin’ like havin’ a fine lookin’ place to draw trade. Is business prosperin’ now-a-days?”
Silas turned three shades redder, and stammered badly as he replied:
“Yes, I’m doin’ as well as I can expect—er—I suppose.”
“Probably as well as your customers are doin’, I should imagine? You don’t need to get discouraged. It takes time to work up a trade like yours in a nice, decent neighborhood like this.”