“I won’t have you hanging around saloons,” snapped Mother.
“Now, Mother, I reckon I wouldn’t more than drink a couple of horses’ necks or something wild like that.”
“Yes, and that’s just the way temptation gets you,” said Mother, “drinking horses’ necks and all them brandy drinks. I wish I’d never tasted that nasty cocktail you made me take last year. I wish I’d joined the White-Ribboners like Mrs. Tubbs wanted me to.”
“Well, we’ll organize a Hoboes’ Chapter of the W. C. T. U. and have meetings under the water-tank at the depot—”
They were interrupted by a hail from the road-house. A large man with a detective’s mustache and a brewer’s cheeks, a man in shirt-sleeves and a white apron, stood on the porch, calling, “Hey! Mr. and Mrs. Smith! Come right in and get warm.”
Father and Mother stared at each other. “He means us,” gasped Father.
Mechanically the Innocents straggled across the road.
The saloon-keeper shook hands with both of them, and bellowed: “Lady telephoned along the line—great things for gossip, these rural telephones—said you was coming this way, and we’re all watching out for you. You come right into the parlor. No booze served in there, Mrs. Smith. Make yourselves comfortable, and I’ll have the Frau cut you up a coupla sandwiches. How’d you leave San Francisco? Pretty warm out there, ain’t it?”
He had, by this time, shooed them into the plush and crayon-enlargement parlor behind the barroom. His great voice overawed them—and they were cold. Mother secretively looked for evidences of vice, for a roulette-table or a blackjack, but found nothing more sinful than a box of dominoes, so she perched on a cane chair and folded her hands respectably.
“How’s San Francisco?” repeated the saloon-keeper.