“What you name?”
Bud turned sharp from the window startled by a shrill squeaky voice in his ear. He was looking into the fireblue eyes of a little yellow man who had a face like a toad, large mouth, protruding eyes and thick closecropped black hair.
Bud’s jaw set. “My name’s Smith, what about it?”
The little man held out a square callouspalmed hand, “Plis to meet yez. Me Matty.”
Bud took the hand in spite of himself. It squeezed his until he winced. “Matty what?” he asked. “Me juss Matty ... Laplander Matty ... Come have drink.”
“I’m flat,” said Bud. “Aint got a red cent.”
“On me. Me too much money, take some....” Matty shoved a hand into either pocket of his baggy checked suit and punched Bud in the chest with two fistfuls of greenbacks.
“Aw keep yer money ... I’ll take a drink with yous though.”
By the time they got to the saloon on the corner of Pearl Street Bud’s elbows and knees were soaked and a trickle of cold rain was running down his neck. When they went up to the bar Laplander Matty put down a five dollar bill.
“Me treat everybody; very happy yet tonight.”