“Comin’ along, Slum,” replied Carney, winking knowingly to let Tresler understand that the man’s impatience was only a covering for his discomfiture at Shaky’s hands. “I’ve done my best to pizen you this ten year. Guess Shaky’s still pinin’ fer the job o’ nailin’ a few planks around you. Here you are. More comin’.”
“Who’s needin’ me?” asked Shaky, looking up from his cards. “Slum Ranks?” he questioned, pausing. “Guess I’ve got a plank or two fit fer him. Red pine. Burns better.”
He lit his pipe with great display and sucked at it noisily. Slum lowered his cocktail and turned a disgusted look on him.
“Say, go easy wi’ that lucifer. Don’t breathe on it, or ther’ won’t be no need fer red pine fer you.”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” cried Carney, jocosely, “the present—kep to the present. Because Slum, here, runs a—well, a boardin’ establishment, ther’ ain’t no need to discuss his future so coarsely.”
“Not so much slack, Carney,” said Slum, a little angrily. “Guess my boardin’ emporium’s rilin’ you some. You’re feelin’ a hur’cane; that’s wot you’re feelin’, I guess. Makes you sick to see folks gittin’ value fer their dollars, don’t it?”
“Good fer you, good fer you,” cried the butcher, and subsided with a loud guffaw.
The unusual burst of speech from this man caused general surprise. The entire company paused to stare at the shining, grinning face.
“Sail in, Slum,” said a lean man Tresler had heard addressed as “Sawny” Martin. “I allus sez as you’ve got a dead eye fer the tack-head ev’ry time. But go easy, or the boss’ll bar you on the slate.”