"What's the matter with you lately, Walky?" demanded the barkeeper, pouring the non-alcoholic drink with no very good grace. "Lost your taste for a man's drink?"
"Sort o'," replied Walky, calmly. "Here's your health, Joe. I thought you had that fiddle sold before you went to Hopewell arter it?"
"To tell ye the truth, Walky——"
"Don't do it if it hurts ye, Joe. Haw! haw!"
The barkeeper made a wry face and continued:
"That feller I got it for, only put up a part of the price. I thought he was a square sport; but he ain't. When he got a squint at the old fiddle while Hopewell was down here playing for the dance, he was just crazy to buy it. Any old price, he said! After I got it," proceeded Joe, ruefully, "he tries to tell me it ain't worth even what I paid for it."
"Wal—'tain't, is it?" said Walky, bluntly.
"If it's worth a hundred it's worth a hundred and fifty," said the barkeeper doggedly.
"Ya-as—if," murmured the expressman.
"However, nobody's going to get it for any less—believe me! Least of all that Fontaine. I hate these Kanucks, anyway. I know him. He's trying to jew me down," said Joe, angrily.