“Pleased to meet you,” Pitch said: he did not look it. He put down his demijohn and funnel upon the bar, and stood there, looking at the company.
“Pitch,” the train-hand said, “Mr. Harker wants to get to Las Palomas. He ain’t got too much money; so I say he’d better put in a fortnight at the Chicuna. What do you say, Pitch?”
“He wants to get to Las Palomas?”
“Yes, or the coast,” Sard said.
“I guess you’d better inform yourself, sir,” Pitch said. “There’s only two ways of getting to a place; you know that as well as I do.”
“Pitch,” the train-hand said, “this gentleman’s a friend of mine.”
“If he’d like to order anything,” Pitch said, “he’ll be a friend of mine. But if he ain’t got any dough, or is the dead-broke bum I take him to be, I’ll ask him to take a walk. This is a place for men who can pay their way and can afford hats. Are you going to order, Alonzo?”
“Yes,” Sard said. “I am.”
Although his leg was numb from the poison, he could still move like an athlete. He slid from his bench to the landlord in one motion.
“I’m going to order you to mind how you talk to me.”