Sure of himself, because of his two companions, Freedman said, “This punk stinks. Get him outta here, George.”
Dillon put the bottle down on the counter and turned his head. His white, clay-like face startled Freedman. Dillon said, “You’re the kind of heel that gets slugged some dark night.”
Freedman lost some of his nerve. He turned his back and began talking to Walcott.
Just then Abe Goldberg came in. He was a little fat Jew, maybe about sixty, with a great hooked beak and two sharp little eyes. His mouth turned up at the corners, giving him a kindly look. He nodded at George and ordered a ginger ale. Dillon looked at him closely. Abe was shabby, but he wore a thick rope of gold across his chest. Dillon eyed that with interest. Abe met his eye. He said, “You a stranger around here?”
Dillon began to shuffle to the door. “Don’t you worry about me,” he said.
Abe looked him over, sighed, and put his glass on the wood. He walked over to Dillon, looking up at him. “If you could use a meal,” he said, “go over to the store across the way. My wife’ll fix you something.”
Dillon stood looking at Abe, his cold eyes searching the little Jew’s face. Then he said, “Yeah, I guess I’ll do that.”
The three at the table, and George, watched him shuffle out of the saloon. Freedman said, “That’s a bad guy all right. There’s somethin’ about that guy.”
George mopped his face with the swab. He was mighty glad to see Dillon go. “You gotta be careful with those bums, Mr. Goldberg,” he said. “You don’t know how tough hoboes are.”
Abe drained his glass, then shook his head. “That guy’s all right. He’s hungry,” was all he said. He crossed the street and went into the store.