At a draught he emptied the liquor down his throat. It burned like red-hot coals, for he was unused to it, but he would have drunk it down if it had cremated him.
McGregor had made a miscalculation and he appeared slightly crestfallen as he turned from Phil and talked volubly to his comrades.
While they conversed, McGregor backed gradually, as if by accident, until he was almost touching Phil. Finally he got the heel of his boot squarely on Phil’s toe, and he kept it there, pressing harder and harder every second, still talking loudly to those around him and apparently all oblivious of his action.
Even then Phil had no definite notion that it was not 52 merely the clumsy accident of a half-intoxicated cowboy.
At last he poked the man in the back.
“Excuse me,” he said, “but when you are finished with my foot I should like to have it.”
“What’n the––Oh!” exclaimed the red-haired man, grinding his full weight on Phil’s toe as he got off. “Was I standin’ on you? Hope I didn’t hurt you!” he grinned maliciously.
The pain was excruciating, but still Phil forebore with an effort, accepting the man’s half-cocked apology.
Suddenly a new diversion appeared in the shape of a half-witted boy of about twelve years of age, who slouched in evidently on the look-out for any cigar ends that might be lying about the floor.
The boy was clad raggedly and wore a perpetual grin.