They have entered without any definite design, further than, as Crozier said, to “have a shy at the tiger.” Besides, as they have been told, a night in San Francisco would not be complete without a look in upon “El Dorado.”
Soon as inside the saloon, they step towards its drinking-bar, Crozier saying—
“Come, Cad! let’s do some sparkling.”
“All right,” responds the descendant of the Cymri, his face already a little flushed with what they have had at the Parker.
“Pint bottle of champagne!” calls Crozier.
“We’ve no pints here,” saucily responds the bar-tender—a gentleman in shirt-sleeves, with gold buckles on his embroidered braces—too grand to append the courtesy of “sir.”
“Nothing less than quarts,” he deigns to add.
“A quart bottle, then!” cries Crozier, tossing down a doubloon to pay for it. “A gallon, if you’ll only have the goodness to give it us.”
The sight of the gold coin, with a closer inspection of his customers, and perhaps some dread of a second sharp rejoinder, secures the attention of the dignified Californian Ganymede, who, re-using his hauteur, condescends to serve them.
While drinking the champagne, the young officers direct their eyes towards that part of the saloon occupied by the gamesters; where they see several clusters of men collected around distinct tables, some sitting, others standing. They know what it means, and that there is Monté in their midst.