There was a noise of movement in the next room. Apparently as Hawley arose carelessly from his edge of the washstand he had dislodged the glass, which fell shivering on the floor. Scott swore audibly at the loss.
“Shut up, Bill,” snapped the gambler, irritated, “you've got the bottle left. I'm going; there's nothing for any of us to do now, until after I see Christie. You remain here! Do you understand?—remain here. Damn me, if that drunken fool isn't waking up.” There was a rattling of the rickety bed, and then the sound of Willoughby's voice, thick from liquor.
“Almighty glad see you, Bart—am, indeed. Want money—Bill an' I both want money—can't drink without money—can't eat without money—shay, when you goin' stake us?”
“I'll see you again in the morning, Fred,” returned the other briefly. “Go on back to sleep.”
“Will when I git good an' ready—go sleep, stay wake, just as I please—don't care damn what yer do—got new frien' now.”
“A new friend? Who?” Hawley spoke with aroused interest.
“Oh, he's all right—he's mighty fine fellow—come in wisout in—invitation—ol' friend my sister—called—called her Hope—you fool, Bart Hawley, think my sister Christie—Christie—damfino the name—my sister, Hope—don't want yer money—my—my new friend, he 'll stake me—he knows my sister—Hope.”
The gambler grasped the speaker, shaking him into some slight semblance of sobriety.
“Now, look here, Willoughby, I want the truth, and mean to have it,” he insisted. “Has some one been in here while Scott was gone?”
“Sure—didn't I just tell yer?—friend o' Hope's.”