“Sure.”
“Well, that’s all right. Jest you keep your face straight, and say that you hain’t been near the Eagle House. I’ll fix him.”
Matt Shepard, square-jawed, big-framed, honest, and gritty, but a man of the type known as a “mixer,” came up to the door of the room, then pushed it open, and walked in, looking at the proprietor and at White-eyed Moses.
“Hello, Mose!” he said, taking a seat quite as if he felt at home. “Where you been keepin’ yerself lately?”
“Oh, all roundt. In the usual blaces,” was the fiddler’s answer.
“Fiddlin’ business as good as ever, eh?”
“Purdy goodt!”
“You wasn’t over t’ the Eagle House a while ago? Think straight now!”
“I vasn’t over dare.”
“You’re goin’ to stick to that?”