The man behind the bar pushed the bottle across.
“What you needin’ him for?” he asked with apparent unconcern.
Pete snatched at his drink.
“That ain’t your affair,” he retorted surlily.
“Sure it ain’t. I jest asked—casual.”
Pete banged his empty glass on the counter.
“I’m needin’ him bad,” he cried, his eyes furiously alight. “I’m needin’ him cos I know the racket he’s on. See? He quit his claim early cos—cos——”
“Cos he’s goin’ to pay a ‘party’ call on that Golden Woman,” cried Beasley, appearing to have made a sudden discovery. “I got it, now. That’s why he was in sech a hurry. That’s why he needed a good dose o’ rye. Say, that feller means marryin’ that gal. I’ve heard tell he’s got it all fixed with her. I’ve heard tell she’s dead sweet on him. Wal, I ain’t sure but wot it’s natural. He’s a good looker; so is she. An’ he’s a bright boy. Guess he’s got the grit to look after a gal good. He’s a pretty scrapper. Another drink?”
Pete refilled his glass. His fury was at bursting-point, and Beasley reveled in the devil now looking out of his angry eyes.
“He’s gone across ther’ now?” he demanded, after swallowing his second drink. His question was ominously quiet.