Of course, from the nature of our business, Pinkerton could do a thing of the kind at a figure extremely reduced; for all that, I was appalled at the extravagance, and said so.
“What matter a few dollars now?” he replied sadly. “It's in three months that the pull comes, Loudon.”
We walked on again in silence, not without a shiver. Even at the Poodle Dog, we took our food with small appetite and less speech; and it was not until he was warmed with a third glass of champagne that Pinkerton cleared his throat and looked upon me with a deprecating eye.
“Loudon,” said he, “there was a subject you didn't wish to be referred to. I only want to do so indirectly. It wasn't”—he faltered—“it wasn't because you were dissatisfied with me?” he concluded, with a quaver.
“Pinkerton!” cried I.
“No, no, not a word just now,” he hastened to proceed. “Let me speak first. I appreciate, though I can't imitate, the delicacy of your nature; and I can well understand you would rather die than speak of it, and yet might feel disappointed. I did think I could have done better myself. But when I found how tight money was in this city, and a man like Douglas B. Longhurst—a forty-niner, the man that stood at bay in a corn patch for five hours against the San Diablo squatters—weakening on the operation, I tell you, Loudon, I began to despair; and—I may have made mistakes, no doubt there are thousands who could have done better—but I give you a loyal hand on it, I did my best.”
“My poor Jim,” said I, “as if I ever doubted you! as if I didn't know you had done wonders! All day I've been admiring your energy and resource. And as for that affair——”
“No, Loudon, no more, not a word more! I don't want to hear,” cried Jim.
“Well, to tell you the truth, I don't want to tell you,” said I; “for it's a thing I'm ashamed of.”
“Ashamed, Loudon? O, don't say that; don't use such an expression even in jest!” protested Pinkerton.