"Can't say. I guess they'll send a good man. I've asked for more men."
The old man roused somewhat from his maudlin state.
"Ah, that's a good move, John," said the money-lender. "What does Jacky think about—these things?"
The question was put carelessly. John yawned, and poured out a "tot" of whisky for his friend.
"Guess I haven't seen the child since breakfast. She seemed to take it badly enough then."
"Thanks. Aren't you going to have one?" as John pushed the glass over to the other.
"Why, yes, man. Never shirk my liquor."
He dashed a quantity of raw spirit into his glass and drank it off. Lablache looked on with intense satisfaction. John rose unsteadily, and, supporting himself against the furniture as he went, moved over to the French window and closed it. Then he lurched heavily back into his chair again. His eyes half closed. But he roused at the sound of Lablache's guttural tones.
"John, old friend." Muddled as he was the rancher started at the term. "I've come to have a long chat with you. This morning I could not talk. I was too broken up—too, too ill. Now listen and you shall hear of all that happened last night, and then you will the better be able to judge of the wisdom of my decision."
John listened while Lablache told his tale. The money-lender embellished the facts slightly so as the further to emphasize them. Then, at the conclusion of the story of his night's doings, he went on to matters which concerned his future.