“No one sed you was––nor thought it likely.”
“The duff puncher wakin’ up,” sneered Smallbones, angrily.
“Guess it’s your voice hurtin’ my ear drums,” replied Jake, ponderously.
At that moment Abe Horsley joined the group. He called for drinks before adding his bit to the talk. He had an axe to grind and wanted a sympathetic audience. While Rocket, observing his customers with shrewd unfriendly eyes, set out the glasses and the accompanying bottles––he never needed to inquire what these men would take; he knew the tipple of every soul in Barnriff by heart––Abe opened out. He was unctuous and careful of his diction. He was Barnriff’s lay-preacher, and felt that this attitude was “up to him.”
“I do sure agree with the generality of opinion in this yer city,” he said largely. “I consider that the largeness of heart for which our brothers in this important town––it has a great future, gentlemen, believe me; I mention this in parenthesis––are held in excellent esteem–––” 91 He broke off to nod to Jim Thorpe who entered the saloon at that moment––“should be––er fostered. I think, brethren––pardon me, ‘gentlemen’––that we should give, and give liberally to Sally Morby, but––but I do not see why Doc Crombie should make the occasion the opportunity for a speech. Any of us could do it quite as well. Perhaps, who knows, some of us even better–––”
“Smallbones,” murmured the dissatisfied Wilkes, drinking his gin at a gulp.
“Yes, even Smallbones,” shrugged Abe, sipping his whiskey.
Angel Gay bolted his whiskey and laid a gentle hand firmly on Horsley’s shoulder.
“No,” he said, “not Smallbones; not even Doc Crombie, both deadgut fellers sure. But you are the man, Abe. For elegance o’ langwidge, an’ flow––mark you––you––you are a born speaker, sure. Say, I believe that rye of Rocket’s was in a gin bottle. It tasted like––like–––”
“Have another?” suggested Abe, cordially.