"I never try to make a strike within a hundred miles of a'gin mill. Hootch and work don't mix."
This statement riled Pinleg Scoddy, the proprietor of the Red Fox. An ugly, domineering, soulless brute he was.
"The sooner yuh goes out and makes a stake the better I'll like yuh," he growled. "Yuh owes me ten ounces now."
The tin clock back of the bar had it all to itself for a full ten seconds, which it made the most of.
"Ain't it awful, fellas?" Lucky Jim asked the group of parka clad men who stood about the big stove, "Ain't it hell? The man behind the bar says I owe him ten ounces!"
Nonchalantly he rolled a cigarette, lighted it and took a deep pull, then turned and faced Pinleg Scoddy.
"I owe you ten ounces, you say." He blew a cloud of smoke from his mouth. "I don't doubt you. I take a man's word every time. 'Cause if you can't take that, he ain't got nothin' else wuth a hoot." He took another leisurely pull at his smoke. "I owe you ten ounces, and since last fall I've shoved over three hundred ounces across your spruce planks. Ain't that right?"
"It don't matter a damn what you've spent!" Pinleg shot back. "You'll decorate the bar next time yuh invites the bunch to drink."
"I'm invitin' them right now!" Lucky Jim cried in a voice that caused Pinleg Scoddy to start. "Have a drink with me, boys!" he shouted. To Pinleg he added, "I'll be in town but two days more, but I mean to have my drink when I want it and where I spent my money. Set 'em up!"