He strolled along the line of stools. At the lower end on the last stool sat a mild-appearing little man of perhaps fifty. He wore olive-drab cotton clothes, belted jacket and trousers, and a floppy-brimmed, homely brown canvas hat. His eyes were protected by sun-glasses.
“Come on, you sawed-off, climb down,” commanded the youth.
“Who, me?” queried the little man. “Why should I?”
“Because I tell you to,” retorted Chihuahua, a nasty smile on his lips, a scowl on his brow. “I admire to set down on that stool. I’m tired o’ standin’.”
The other smiled amiably. “Aw, forget it,” he advised.
As he took his empty cup from his lips, Chihuahua Pete, still with the sneering, contemptuous grin on his face, laid an ungentle hand on the collar of the ill-fitting coat. He jerked backward. The little man’s hands flew up wildly. His coffee-cup clattered inside the counter and crashed on the floor. His feet thumped on the rough pine boards. The stool tipped over. The olive-drab shoulders jolted against the wooden wall of the Last Chance.
“My, my, I have an awful time teachin’ yo’ manners,” observed Pete, evil in his sleepy gray eyes. “When you see a gentleman come in, you better offer him your chair, next time, stranger.” He righted the stool, drew it to the counter, and sat down. “Come on, you Sam. Let’s have a egg sandwich and some coffee. I’m a wild wolf from Battle Mountain. And this is my day to howl.”
The little man did not seem annoyed, or even fussed. He sauntered forward, smiling a little, and took his place at the end of the counter, near Chihuahua’s right hand. He rested his arms comfortably on the oak.
“Don’t mention it,” he said cheerfully.
“I was through, anyway.”