Mr. Long, in the background, was whining to himself with joy, and he now urgently beckoned Keyser to come and hear this.
“If you’ve got some cheap poker chips,” suggested Cumnor.
“And say, uncle,” said Jones, raising his voice, for the peddler was moving away, “decks, and tobacco better than what they keep at the commissary. Me and my friend’ll take some off your hands. And if you’re comin’ with new stock to-morrow, uncle” (Jones was now shouting after him), “why, we’re single men, and y’u might fetch along a couple of squaws!”
“Holy smoke!” screeched Mr. Long, dancing on one leg.
“What’s up with you, y’u ape?” inquired Specimen Jones. He looked at the departing peddler and saw Sergeant Keyser meet him and salute with stern, soldierly aspect. Then the peddler shook hands with the sergeant, seemed to speak pleasantly, and again Keyser saluted as he passed on. “What’s that for?” Jones asked, uneasily. “Who is that hobo?”
But Mr. Long was talking to himself in a highly moralizing strain. “It ain’t every young enlisted man,” he was saying, “ez hez th’ privilege of explainin’ his wants at headquarters.”
“Jones,” said Sergeant Keyser, arriving, “I’ve a compliment for you. General Crook said you were a fine-looking man.”
“‘AIN’T Y’U GOT SOMETHING TO SELL?’”