And now, for the first time, Young Van became conscious that he was no longer alone at his table. Opposite him, smiling genially, and returning his gaze with benevolent watery eyes, sat a big Texan. This individual wore his cowboy hat on the back of his head, and made no effort to conceal the two revolvers and the knife at his belt.
“D’ye know,” said the Texan, “I like you. What’s your name?”
“Vandervelt. What is yours?”
“Charlie—that’s my name.” Then his smile faded, and he shook his head. “But you won’t find Purple Finn here.”
“Why not?”
“Ain’t that funny! You don’t know ’bout Purple Finn. It’s b’cause Jack Flagg’s in town. They ain’t friendly—I know Jack Flagg. I’ve been workin’ with ’im—down Paradise way.”
Young Van was nearly awake. “You don’t happen to be a cook, do you?” said he.
“Yes,” Charlie replied dreamily. “I’m a cook. But I’m nothin’ to Jack Flagg. He’s won’erful—won’erful!”
The engineer got up to stretch his legs, and incidentally took occasion to read the placard. It ran as follows:—