"Beer."
"Yours, Jim?" prompted the watchful bartender.
"Well—I guess you can give me a cigar this time, Jack."
The practiced bartender, standing by his beer pump, slid the whisky glasses along the slippery counter with a delicate touch, as a skillful dealer distributes cards. He set out the red and smoky whiskies, the charged water, the tumbler, with its cube of ice; drew two glasses of beer, scraped the top foam into the copper runway, and almost simultaneously, as if he had four hands, laid three open cigar boxes before Jim, who selected a dark "Joe Tinker."
"Join us, Jack," invited the loser of the dice game, hospitably waving his hand. The efficient bartender drew a small half-glass of lithia for himself. Five feet rested upon the comfortable rail before the bar, there was the little pause imposed by etiquette, six glasses were raised to eye-level.
"Here's whatever."
"Happy days."
"S'looking at you," ran the murmur.
"The big fellow!" exclaimed one.
Chorus: "Yes, the big fellow!"