“He hasn't been here since I was?”
“He hasn't.”
“And my friend who was here with me the first time—has he been here since?”
“Not while I've been.”
“When is Mr. Bud likely to be here again?”
“Give it up. I ain't his private secretary.”
Just as Larcher was turning away, the street door opened, and in walked a man with a large hand-bag, who proved to be none other than Mr. Bud himself.
“I was just looking for you,” cried Larcher.
“That so?” replied Mr. Bud, cheerily, grasping Larcher's hand. “I just got into town. It's blame cold out.” He set his hand-bag on the bar, saying to the bartender, “Keep my gripsack back there awhile, Mick, will yuh? I got to git somethin' into me 'fore I go up-stairs. Gimme a plate o' soup on that table, an' the whisky bottle. Will you join me, sir? Two plates o' soup, an' two glasses with the whisky bottle. Set down, set down, sir. Make yourself at home.”
Larcher obeyed, and as soon as the old man's overcoat was off, and the old man ready for conversation, plunged into his subject.