"I'll sure have to come in on that," said Jim, pressing between two shoulders to the bar. "A little bourbon, Jack," he asked briskly.
The other glasses were lowered until Jim also received his.
Then all were again raised to eye-level. Unanimously, "The big fellow!"
Heads were thrown back and each ego there, except the bartender, received a charming little thrill.
The beer men wandered to the back of the saloon and dipped into a large pink hemisphere of cheese. The whisky men suppressed coughs. Jim tipped his head back about five degrees and inquired, "Is the big fellow coming 'round to-night?"
"He's due," replied Jack, wiping his bar dry again.
"How's things looking to you?"
"We—ell, there's always a lot of knockers about."
"Yes, 'pikers' like Ben Birch and Coffey Neal, that line up with the big fellow for ten years and then throw him overnight because he won't let 'em name the alderman this time. And he always treated 'em right. Better than me. An' jou ever hear me kicking?"
"Nary once, Jim."