“When I was a lad in Ukiah,” he whispered hoarsely, “I was a devil of a fellow with the girls; but Lordy!” he nudged him slyly, “I wouldn't have it known!”
Of those who were drinking, Annixter alone retained all his wits. Though keeping pace with the others, glass for glass, the punch left him solid upon his feet, clear-headed. The tough, cross-grained fibre of him seemed proof against alcohol. Never in his life had he been drunk. He prided himself upon his power of resistance. It was his nature.
“Say!” exclaimed old Broderson, gravely addressing the company, pulling at his beard uneasily—“say! I—I—listen! I'm a devil of a fellow with the girls.” He wagged his head doggedly, shutting his eyes in a knowing fashion. “Yes, sir, I am. There was a young lady in Ukiah—that was when I was a lad of seventeen. We used to meet in the cemetery in the afternoons. I was to go away to school at Sacramento, and the afternoon I left we met in the cemetery and we stayed so long I almost missed the train. Her name was Celestine.”
There was a pause. The others waited for the rest of the story.
“And afterwards?” prompted Annixter.
“Afterwards? Nothing afterwards. I never saw her again. Her name was Celestine.”
The company raised a chorus of derision, and Osterman cried ironically:
“Say! THAT'S a pretty good one! Tell us another.”
The old man laughed with the rest, believing he had made another hit. He called Osterman to him, whispering in his ear:
“Sh! Look here! Some night you and I will go up to San Francisco—hey? We'll go skylarking. We'll be gay. Oh, I'm a—a—a rare old BUCK, I am! I ain't too old. You'll see.”