Something was going on there—something that revealed the dregs of life to be as mean and offensive here in Canyon Pass as they could be in any place in the whole world. He heard the maundering tones of an intoxicated man and—sharply contrasted—the voice of a woman.
“Hic! Won’t go home till mawnin’—till mawnin’—hic—doth ’pear.”
“Well, morning’s appearing all right, and it’ll catch you here, wallerin’ like a hog in the lane. Come home with me.”
“No. I’m a man. I’m—hic!—independent, I am. I’ll go hu-hu-home jest whenever I please.”
“Now’s the time to please me, Sam. Get up and come along.”
“Couldn’t do it, gal. Couldn’t think—hic!—of it. ’Twould be givin’ up my indepen—dic!—dence. I’m—I’m my own master. Leastways, I am on Sunday when the mine’s shut down. Here I stand——”
“But you don’t stand!” ejaculated the woman’s voice sharply. “And I don’t believe you can.”
The inebriated man gave no heed to this challenge. “Here I stand,” he repeated. “‘On Jordan’s bank I take my stand, and cast a—hic!—cast a wishtful eye’——”
“More’n likely you’ll cast a shoe and won’t get home at all, if I can’t start you,” complained the woman’s voice.