“Fine dogs, them! We never get that kind hereabouts now, M’sieu’. Ever been to the city before?”
“I’ve never been far from home before,” answered the Forgotten Man.
“You’d better keep your eyes open, my friend, though you’ve got a sharp pair in your head—sharp as Beauty Steele’s almost. There’s rascals in the river-side drinking-places that don’t let the left hand know what the right does.”
“My dogs and I never trust anybody,” said the Forgotten Man, as one of the dogs snarled at the landlord’s touch. “So I can take care of myself, even if I haven’t eyes as sharp as Beauty Steele’s, whoever he is.”
The landlord laughed. “Beauty’s only skin-deep, they say. Charley Steele was a lawyer; his office was over there”—he pointed across the street. “He went wrong. He come here too often—that wasn’t my fault. He had an eye like a hawk, and you couldn’t read it. Now I can read your eye like a book. There’s a bit of spring in ‘em, M’sieu’. His eyes were hard winter-ice five feet deep and no fishing under—froze to the bed. He had a tongue like a cross-cut saw. He’s at the bottom of the St. Lawrence, leaving a bad job behind him.
“Have a drink—hein?” He jerked a finger backwards to the saloon door. “It’s Sunday, but stolen waters are sweet, sure!”
The Forgotten Man shook his head. “I don’t drink, thank you.”
“It’d do you good. You’re dead beat. You’ve been travelling hard—eh?”
“I’ve come a long way, and travelled all night.”
“Going on?”