“Well, what’s to be done now?” I asked. “Stiffner can smash us both with one hand, and if we don’t pay up he’ll pound our swags and cripple us. He’s just the man to do it. He loves a fight even more than he hates being had.”
“There’s only one thing to be done, Jim,” says Bill, in a tired, disinterested tone that made me mad.
“Well, what’s than” I said.
“Smoke!”
“Smoke be damned,” I snarled, losing my temper.
“You know dashed well that our swags are in the bar, and we can’t smoke without them.
“Well, then,” says Bill, “I’ll toss you to see who’s to face the landlord.”
“Well, I’ll be blessed!” I says. “I’ll see you further first. You have got a front. You mugged that stuff away, and you’ll have to get us out of the mess.”
It made him wild to be called a mug, and we swore and growled at each other for a while; but we daren’t speak loud enough to have a fight, so at last I agreed to toss up for it, and I lost.
Bill started to give me some of his points, but I shut him up quick.