Slum’s greeting was characteristic. “Wal, blind-hulks has passed—eh? I figgered you was comin’ out on top. Guess the government’ll treat you han’some.”
The butcher guffawed from his place at the bar. Tresler saw that he was still standing with his back to it; his hands were still gripping the moulded edge, as though he had never changed his position since the first time he had seen him. Shaky, the carpenter, looked up from the little side table at which he was playing “solitaire” with a greasy pack of cards; his face still wore the puzzled look with which he had been contemplating the maze of spots and pictures a moment before. Those others who were new to him turned on him curiously as they heard Slum’s greeting, and Carney paused in the act of wiping a glass, an occupation which never failed him, however bad trade might be.
Tresler felt that something was due to those who could display so much interest in his return, so he walked to the bar and called for drinks. Then he turned to Slum.
“Well,” he said, “I’m going to take up my abode here for a week or two.”
“I’m real glad,” said Ranks, his little eyes lighting up at the prospect. He remembered how profitable this man had proved before. “The missis’ll be glad, too,” he added. “I ’lows she’s a far-seein’ wummin. We kep a best room fer such folk as you, now. A bran’ noo iron bed, wi’ green an’ red stripes, an’ a washbowl goin’ with it. Say, it’s a real dandy layout, an’ on’y three dollars a week wi’out board. Guess I’ll git right over an’ tell her to fix—eh?”
Tresler protested and laid a detaining hand on his arm. “Don’t bother. Carney, here, is going to fix me up; aren’t you, Carney?”
“That’s how,” replied the saloon-keeper, with a triumphant grin at the plausible Slum.
“Wal, now. You plumb rattle me. To think o’ your goin’ over from a pal like that,” said Slum, protestingly, while the butcher guffawed and stretched his arms further along the bar.
“Guess he’s had some,” observed the carpenter, shuffling his cards anew. “I ’lows that bed has bugs, an’ the wash-bowl’s mostly used dippin’ out swill,” he finished up scornfully.
Ranks eyed the sad-faced man with an unfriendly look. “Guess I never knew you but what you was insultin’, Shaky,” he observed, in a tone of pity. “Some folks is like that. Guess you git figgerin’ them cards too close. You never was bustin’ wi’ brains. Say, Carney,” turning back to the bar complainingly, “wher’s them durned brandy ‘cocks’ Mr. Tresler ordered a whiles back? You’re gettin’ most like a fun’ral on an up-hill trail. Slow—eh? Guess if we’re to be pizened I sez do it quick.”