“My dear young man, you are of undoubted courage. I believe you would fight a regiment if you thought it necessary.”
Like all cowards, Fred Reade was very susceptible to flattery.
“You have the right estimation of my character, Mr. Barr,” he blustered; “this wild and woolly westerner here cannot appreciate a man of grit and brawn unless he wears a pair of moustaches like a billygoat and swaggers around drinking at frontier bars.”
“Is that so, Mister Reade?” sneered Hank Higgins, despite Barr’s urging him to keep quiet. “You’re a writing gent, ain’t yer?”
“I am a journalist—yes, sir.”
“Wall, while we are waitin’ here and watching that ther pretty bonfire that Noggy Wilkes and our Wild friend have lit up, I’ll just tell you a little story of one of your trade who come out west looking for sensations.”
“All right, go ahead and amuse yourself,” said Reade sullenly.
“Don’t get mad.”
“Oh, I’m not mad. But cut out all your talk and tell your story.”
“Very well, Mr. Reade, it goes this way. One night there was seated in the bar at El Paso a young writing gent just like you are. He was a very bored young writing gent, and he says to a fren’ who was with him: