“Don’t owe him nuthin’,” growled Slum.
“Which ain’t or’nary in this company,” observed the smiling Carney; he loved to get Slum angry. “Say, Shaky,” he went on, “how do Slum fix you in his—hotel? You don’t seem bustin’ wi’ vittals.”
“Might do wuss,” responded the carpenter, sorrowfully. “But, y’ see, I stan’ in wi’ Doc. Osler, an’ he physics me reg’lar.”
Everybody laughed with the butcher this time.
“Say, you gorl-durned ‘fun’ral boards,’ you’re gittin’ kind o’ fresh, but I’d bet a greenback to a last year’s corn-shuck you don’t quit ther’ an’ come grazin’ around Carney’s pastures, long as my missis does the cookin’.”
“I ’lows your missis ken cook,” said Shaky, with enthusiasm. “The feller as sez she can’t lies. But wi’ her, my respec’ fer your hog-pen ends. I guess this argyment is closed fer va-cation. Who’s fer ‘draw’?”
Slum turned back to the bar. “Here, Carney,” he said, planking out a ten-dollar bill, “hand over chips to that. We’re losin’ blessed hours gassin’. I’m goin’ fer a hand at ‘draw.’ An’ say, give us a new deck o’ cards. Guess them o’ Shaky’s needs curry-combin’ some. Mr. Tresler,” he went on, turning to his old boarder, “mebbe I owe you some. Have you a notion?”
“No thanks, Slum,” replied Tresler, decidedly. “I’m getting an old hand now.”
“Ah!”
And the little man moved off with a thoughtful smile on his rutted, mahogany features.