“It’s a bloomin’ shame for a feller ter drop his wad like that,” said one, in a maudlin tone, “specially when he’s on de inside an’ oughter know. But you lost[{13}] more’n I did, an’ I sympathize with you.”
“I don’t want none o’ your sympathy,” said the other, evidently a little nearer sober than his companion; “I’m broke now, but I can get plenty of money when I get over to the stable.”
“You’re a liar! you’re always workin’ that bluff about the stable. You don’t get any more stuff’n I do. Wot you got to do wid de stable, say?”
“W’at I got to do wid de stable?” said the other, in as sarcastic a tone as he could command. “I’m chambermaid for Denver Bay, I am.”
“You’re a nice man to be around a racing stable,” said the other, with an oath. “W’at do you know about a hoss?”
“You’re a sucker,” said the other. “You wait till the Denver Bay runs, and I’ll show you a wad.”
“You won’t get it on Denver Bay. You’re drunk, that’s what’s the matter with you. Doncher talk to me no more. You’re drunk.”
“You’re drunk yourself. You smell like a sour apple. Stan’ up like a man. Why doncher pack yer whisky like me?”
The last drinks had evidently been too much for the men, for Nick heard a fall as the speaker attempted to stand on his feet to show how sober he was.
Nick stood upon a chair and carefully raised his head above the narrow partition between the two stalls.