"Good-night, señor."
"Good-night."
When he turned to look at the Frisco kid he found him in his original position, his hand upon his hip. He was blinking in perplexity at the point from whence the Mexicans had vanished.
"Well," said the sober kid crossly, "are you ready to go home now?"
The Frisco kid said—"Where they gone?" His voice was undisturbed but inquisitive.
Benson suddenly propelled himself from his dreamful position against the wall. "Frishco kid's all right. He's drunk's fool and he's all right. But you New York kid, you're shober." He passed into a state of profound investigation. "Kid shober 'cause didn't go with us. Didn't go with us 'cause went to damn circus. Went to damn circus 'cause lose shakin' dice. Lose shakin' dice 'cause—what make lose shakin' dice, kid?"
The New York kid eyed the senile youth. "I don't know. The five white mice, maybe."
Benson puzzled so over this reply that he had to be held erect by his friends. Finally the Frisco kid said—"Let's go home."
Nothing had happened.