“I reckon that's what I'm here for,” said Slosson. Murrell glanced about the empty yard. “Slack,” observed Slosson languidly. “Yes, sir, slack's the only name for it.” It was understood he referred to the state of trade. He looked from one to the other of the two men. As his eyes rested on Murrell, that gentleman raised the first three fingers of his right hand. The gesture was ever so little, yet it seemed to have a tonic effect on Mr. Slosson. What might have developed into a smile had he not immediately suppressed it, twisted his bearded lips as he made an answering movement. “Eph, come here, you!” Slosson raised his voice. This call brought a half-grown black boy from about a corner of the tavern, to whom Murrell relinquished his horse.
“Let's liquor,” said the captain over his shoulder, moving off in the direction of the bar.
“Come on, Nevvy!” said Yancy following, and they all entered the tavern.
“Well, here's to the best of good luck!” said Murrell, as he raised his glass to his lips.
“Same here,” responded Yancy. Murrell pulled out a roll of bills, one of which he tossed on the bar. Then after a moment's hesitation he detached a second bill from the roll and turned to Hannibal.
“Here, youngster—a present for you;” he said good-naturedly. Hannibal, embarrassed by the unexpected gift, edged to his Uncle Bob's side.
“Ain't you-all got nothing to say to the gentleman?” asked Yancy.
“Thank you, sir,” said the boy.
“That sounds a heap better. Let's see—why, if it ain't ten dollars—think of that!” said Yancy, in surprise.
“Let's have another drink,” suggested Murrell.