“Higgins is my name.”
“Did you ever say that if it came to a row between the gamblers of this town and the lumber-jacks that you’d fight with the lumber-jacks?”
Higgins looked the man over.
“Well,” snarled the visitor, “how about it?”
“Well, my friend,” replied the Pilot, laying off his coat, “I guess you’re my man!” and advanced with guard up.
“I’m no gambler,” the visitor hastily explained. “I’m a bartender.”
“Don’t matter,” said Higgins. “You’re my man just the same. I meant bartenders, too.”
“Well,” said the bartender, “I just come up to ask you a question.”
“Are men made by conditions,” the bartender propounded, “or do conditions make men?”