"I've got a cigar," said Joe, "but I haven't a match."
"I've got a match," said Michael, easily, "but I haven't a cigar."
"My name's Joe Blaine," said Joe, handing over a panetela.
"Mine's Mike Dunan," said Michael, passing a match.
They lit up together.
"The drinks are on me," murmured Michael.
They stepped into the saloon at the corner—a bright, mirrory place, whose tiled floor was covered with sawdust, and whose bar shone like mahogany.
"Two beers, Donovan."
"Dark or light, Mike?"
"Dark."