“What’s the matter, Cantine?” grinned Tom derisively. “Ain’t you hungry?” Cantine put out a hand for his companion and gingerly, his eyes watching Bassett for an untoward action, moved over the door-step. He seemed astounded that he got across untouched. He looked back over his shoulder uncertainly, half paused and went on again toward the tables. Bassett had never moved a muscle. Only Cantine could see the derisive profile of his nose, cheek and mouth as he leaned against the outside wall, and the sight awoke in Jose queer premonitions.
Nevertheless he boldly handed Blera into a chair and waited for some one to take his order. No one came. Jose beckoned madly, but the waiters were always busy. They nodded, but they never came. In the fury of his hunger Jose leaped up and rushed over to the plank desk where Flambald took the money for the waiters’ checks.
“Look here!” he flared. “We’re famished, and your waiters are a lot of dummies. Send some one round with grub.”
Flambald, a man of colossal and unhealthy girth, looked at him over the plank desk.
“You go to condemnation!” he bellowed. “You aren’t eating here.”
“Why? What in—”
“Stop!” roared Flambald, “This is my house. I feed who I like, but you I don’t like. Savvy?”
Jose savvied.
Flambald’s hand was on a huge iron paper-weight that held his bills upon the plank desk, and there was no arguing. Jose silently beckoned Blera and slunk out again.
On the door-step lounged Bassett, and Jose turned in the trail to curse him futilely. He knew better than to try any other restaurant. Bassett had passed the word. His receptions would be all the same. Also he knew better than to try force. He had had his lesson from that up by timberline. Besides, Blera’s hand was on his arm, fear fully dragging him on down Linderman’s frozen bosom.