‘There’s going to be something of a time, so just keep your eyes skinned.’
‘What are you going to do?’ I asked.
‘Do? Keep myself beautifully out of trouble,’ he replied.
In a few moments the crowd came surging back headed by Nixon, who was waving a whisky-bottle over his head and yelling as one possessed.
‘Hello!’ exclaimed Graeme softly, ‘I begin to see. Look there!’
‘What’s up?’ I asked.
‘You see Idaho and Slavin and their pets,’ he replied.
‘They’ve got poor Nixon in tow. Idaho is rather nasty,’ he added, ‘but I think I’ll take a hand in this game; I’ve seen some of Idaho’s work before.’
The scene was one quite strange to me, and was wild beyond description. A hundred men filled the room. Bottles were passed from hand to hand, and men drank their fill. Behind the refreshment-tables stood the hotelman and his barkeeper with their coats off and sleeves rolled up to the shoulder, passing out bottles, and drawing beer and whisky from two kegs hoisted up for that purpose. Nixon was in his glory. It was his night. Every man was to get drunk at his expense, he proclaimed, flinging down bills upon the table. Near him were some League men he was treating liberally, and never far away were Idaho and Slavin passing bottles, but evidently drinking little.
I followed Graeme, not feeling too comfortable, for this sort of thing was new to me, but admiring the cool assurance with which he made his way through the crowd that swayed and yelled and swore and laughed in a most disconcerting manner.