Raftery laughed homerically.
“What’s on you’ chest, Jack?” demanded one of his friends.
“I was just thinking,” gurgled the saloonist, “what ’ud happen in case this stiff gent, Iron Hair, was to run in ’bout this time.”
“By Gar!” laughed Pete. “An’ Iron Hair, he’s just ’bout due.”
At that moment Tillie came waddling in, laid down her bundle of meat before Raftery and said—
“One bottle.”
“What’d I tell you?” chuckled Raftery, handing over the liquor. “Boss him get laid out, eh?” he said to Tillie.
But Tillie did not pause for conversation. She whipped the bottle under her blanket and waddled out without a word.
“Well, I’m a son-of-a-gun!” proclaimed Raftery. “That ol’ bum has got ’em well trained, anyhow.”
Black Pete pulled his beard reflectively.