“May be a gentleman for aught that is known to the contrary.”
“Pshaw!” scornfully exclaimed Crossman; “a trader in horses! The major is right—the thing’s improbable—impossible.”
“Ah, gentlemen!” pursued the officer of infantry, with a significant shake of the head. “You don’t know Miss Poindexter, so well as I. An eccentric young lady—to say the least of her. You may have already observed that for yourselves.”
“Come, come, Sloman!” said the major, in a bantering way; “you are inclined to be talking scandal, I fear. That would be a scandal. Perhaps you are yourself interested in Miss Poindexter, notwithstanding your pretensions to be considered a Joseph? Now, I could understand your being jealous if it were handsome Hancock here, or Crossman—supposing him to be disengaged. But as for a common mustanger—poh—poh!”
“He’s an Irishman, major, this mustanger; and if he be what I have some reason to suspect—”
“Whatever he be,” interrupted the major, casting a side glance towards the door, “he’s there to answer for himself; and as he’s a sufficiently plain-spoken fellow, you may learn from him all about the matter that seems to be of so much interest to you.”
“I don’t think you will,” muttered Sloman, as Hancock and two or three others turned towards the new-comer, with the design of carrying out the major’s suggestion.
Silently advancing across the sanded floor, the mustanger had taken his stand at an unoccupied space in front of the counter.
“A glass of whisky and water, if you please?” was the modest request with which to saluted the landlord.
“Visky und vachter!” echoed the latter, without any show of eagerness to wait upon his new guest. “Ya, woe, visky und vachter! It ish two picayunsh the glass.”