“Oh, that’s all right,” replied Watkins. “Come up to my room and have another as soon as you get dusted off.”
Myles went to No. 16, where he found that Ben and Lieutenant Easter were playing cards. There he drank another glass of the cool, pleasant mixture that was “just the thing he wanted.” It made him feel so good that he was easily persuaded to take a third. “It is as mild as milk,” Ben said, “and wouldn’t upset a baby.”
Then he winked at his companion, who looked at Myles and winked back at Ben.
Myles now began to talk loud and boastfully. Then he joined in a game of cards and began to lose money and say that it was no matter, for there was plenty more where that came from. All the while Ben Watkins, with an evil smile on his face, kept urging him to take a sip of this or a taste of that; and after a time, when his money was nearly gone and he could no longer keep awake, they carried him to his own room and put him to bed.
The breathless messenger who came at midnight from the telegraph office to tell Myles that the great strike had begun failed to arouse him. The young reporter knew nothing of the exciting scenes taking place in the streets of the lawless town. Of all the important events, for news of which his paper depended upon him, he sent no dispatch.
Somebody, however, did send a dispatch that night to the Phonograph, and it was:
“Your reporter at Mountain Junction too drunk to send any news. Better replace him with a sober man.”