The bartender gave the speaker a quick, sharp glance. Then he winked warningly and rolled his eyes in the direction of one of the tables at which two men were seated. These two men were intently watching Kearns and his companion, and as the former turned, following the direction of the bartender’s glance, both men hastily looked away and assumed an air of listless indifference. One of the men was small, with a blond mustache, blue eyes and a squint. His companion was tall, thin and dark. In the meantime, the bartender was preparing the drinks ordered.
He served these and, their first thirst somewhat appeased, the travelers this time put down the glasses only half emptied. Kearns laid a fifty-cent piece on the counter in payment. The bartender picked it up and eyed it curiously. Then he laid it carefully away, not in the cash drawer, but among some small glasses on one of the shelves of the bar.
“Let us have some cigars,” suggested the Professor.
“Good idea!” exclaimed Kearns, turning to the bartender; “cigars, if you please.”
His voice was pitched somewhat higher than usual and his face was slightly flushed. It was as if the two drinks he had taken had gone a bit to his head. Curious that a six weeks’ abstinence should make a man so susceptible!
“What kind of a town is this, anyway,” said he to the barkeeper, in a tone of banter, “where you don’t keep any of the popular brands of whiskey and where I don’t see a campaign banner, though the election is coming!”
“Election!” repeated the barkeeper blankly.
“Election is what I said,” repeated Kearns with emphasis. “Which way does this town go—Democratic or Republican?”
The bartender stared first at the speaker and then turned an uneasy eye toward the two men at the table.
“We are loyal here—loyal!” he stammered at last.