“I said ‘how much?’” he rasped, “’cause Barnriff knows its manners. Wal, the social etiquette o’ Barnriff is satisfied, so I ken talk straight. Say, you an’ me have 94 piled a tidy heap in this yer city, so I guess you’re goin’ to match my hundred dollars right here. An’ I tel you squar’, an’ I’m a man o’ my word, if you don’t you’ll get a bath in Rocket’s hoss-trough which’ll do you till the next Presidential Election––if it pizens every hoss for miles around Barnriff. Guess I’ll take that hundred dollars.”
And he did. The furious Smallbones “weighed out” amid a circle of smiles, which suddenly seemed to light up the entire bar-room. Nor had he a single spoken word of protest. But he yielded himself up to the demands of the masterful doctor only to save himself the ducking he was certain awaited his refusal.
The rest was play to Doc Crombie. As he had pointed out, Barnriff’s social demands had been satisfied by his giving Smallbones the option of stating the amount of his contribution, and, as the result had not come up to requirements, he dispensed with further delicacy, and assessed each man present with the cool arbitrariness of a Socialist Chancellor. But in this case the process was not without justification. He knew just how much each man could afford, and he took not one cent more––or less.
This fact was exampled when he came to Jim’s table. Jim looked up from his cards. He understood Crombie.
“Well, Doc,” he said, “how much?”
Crombie eyed him with shrewd amusement.
“Wal, Jim, I’ll take on’y ten dollars from you, seein’s your contrac’s out for buildin’, an’ you need ev’rything that’s comin’ your way.”
Jim laughed. It was a boisterous laugh that had little mirth in it.
“Guess I’ll treble that,” he said. “I’ve cut the contract.”