“I’ll go!” said the young man, after a glance given to the printed statement; then, more deliberately re-reading it, he repeated the words with an emphasis that told of his being in earnest.
The poster also gave intimation of a meeting to be held the same evening at a certain rendezvous in Poydras Street.
He who read only lingered to make note of the address, which was the name of a noted café. Having done this, he was turning to continue his walk when his path was barred by a specimen of humanity, who stood full six foot six in a pair of alligator leather boots, on the banquette by his side, “So ye’re goin’, air ye?” was the half-interrogative speech that proceeded from the individual thus confronting him.
“What’s that to you?” bluntly demanded the young fellow, his temper a little ruffled by what appeared an impertinent obstruction on the part of some swaggering bully.
“More’n you may think for, young ’un,” answered the booted Colossus, still standing square in the way; “more’n you may think for, seein’ it’s through me that bit o’ paper’s been put up on that ’ere wall.”
“You’re a bill-sticker, I suppose?” sneeringly retorted the “young ’un.”
“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed the giant, with a cachinnation that resembled the neighing of a horse. “A bill-sticker, eh! Wal; I likes that. An’ I likes yur grit, too, young feller, for all ye are so sassy. But ye needn’t git riled, an’ I reckon ye won’t, when I tell ye who I am.”
“And who are you; pray?”
“Maybe ye mount a hearn o’ Cris Rock?”
“What! Cris Rock of Texas? He who at Fanning’s—”