“It’s still Crail. Search me, though. I never saw an oyster field. Ah, that’s the good old scout, Sam. Place them right here and remove this devastated affair.”
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry those wasn’t good, sir.” The waiter uttered the regret loudly, evidently for the benefit of the near-by diners, or, possibly, the eagle-eyed steward.
“Couldn’t eat them, Sam,” replied Crail cheerfully. “Don’t let it happen again.”
“No, sir. Now what can I bring the rest of you gentlemen?”
“Do you always get what you want like that?” inquired Jimmy enviously after the waiter had departed with their order. “If I’d asked for a second helping of oysters they’d have thrown me off the train!”
“The main thing to do,” answered Crail, holding an oyster up on his fork and viewing it approvingly, “is to think you’re going to get what you want and let the other fellow know you think it. That gets him to thinking so too, you see. How’s that soup?”
“Punk,” said Dud.
“I’ll pass it. Say, have you fellows got any names?”
“A few,” replied Jimmy. “His is Baker and mine’s Logan.”
“Thanks. I was afraid I’d call you Harold again and get beat up.” Crail didn’t look vastly alarmed, however, and Jimmy secretly congratulated himself on not having to carry out his threat of punching his head. Crail didn’t quite look like a fellow who would stand around idle during such a process! “I know a fellow named Baker out in Wyoming. He’s foreman on the Meeteetse Ranch. Might be kin to you, eh? He comes from back here somewhere. I don’t know what his first name is, though. He’s generally called ‘Soapy.’ Any of your folks out my way?”