“You're a dead game sport and I'd take you up, because I understand that it's between pals, but you ain't got no notion o' tryin' to square me for—you know!”
“I might—if I didn't understand all about that—you know? As it is I want to show you that I'm grateful, and my experienced eye informs me that you arrived in a box car. An empty furniture car, I should say, judging by that scrap of excelsior in your back hair, although the car might have been loaded with crockery.”
Mr. Hennage removed the evidence and gazed at it reflectively.
“I suppose, now, if that'd been a feather, you'd a-swore I flew in.”
“Possibly. You've been a high flyer in your day, haven't you?”
Mr. Hennage grinned. “I've flew some, but I've come home to roost now. How's the old savage down at the Hat Ranch?”
“Sam Singer is unchanged. Nothing ever changes in this country, Mr. Hennage.”
“Nothin' but money,” he corrected, as he fished a bill out of his vest pocket, “an' money sure changes hands, more particular when I'm around.”
“Are you going back to the Silver Dollar saloon?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”