“I like whiskey, sir; but I’ll be hanged if I can respect such men as those.”
“They’re bums, colonel, that’s what they are!”
“How do they live?”
“Don’t know. They’re in here about every day.”
“If it’s drink that’s brought them where they are, I’m half inclined to give it up; but, after all, it isn’t necessary to make a beast of yourself. I always drink like a gentleman, sir.”
“So you do, colonel.”
At that moment a poor woman, in a faded calico dress with a thin shawl over her shoulders, descended the steps that led into the saloon, and walked up to the bar.
“Has my husband been here to-night?” she asked.
Tim Bolton frowned.
“Who’s your husband?” he asked, roughly.