Nick ordered drinks and cigars liberally, and Morris was soon on the road to a high old time.
“Say, young feller,” he said, lighting a cigar and turning away just long enough to permit Nick to empty his fourth glass of whisky into a spittoon, “you knocked them fellows around pretty lively over there.”
“I was dooced scared, doncher know.”
“Well you acted to me just like a man who enjoyed it.”
“I weally didn’t know when I hit them. Dooced lucky, wasn’t I?”
“’Twasn’t all luck, I guess,” said Morris, eyeing the dude suspiciously.
“Oh, come now. You mustn’t talk that way to a fellah.”
“Hello, there,” shouted one of the loafers from the outside, pushing the door open with his foot, “be you fellers goin’ on de retired list?”
“We’re busy just now,” said Morris, angrily.
“All right,” said the other, with a loud guffaw, “work de dude fer all dere is in it.”