The music had just stopped in the dance hall, and a number of men were straggling across the street toward the Short Horn, laughing and talking. Brick heard Harp’s voice, arguing with somebody over the proper way to hold down a necktie.
“C’mon,” said Brick softly.
He hoisted little Whizzer up on his shoulder and walked boldly into the saloon. The place was filled with men, hazy with tobacco smoke. Brick shoved his way to the bar and stood Whizzer on its polished top.
It was several moments before any one recognized the youngster, who was looking them over with his wide brown eyes. It was Mose LaClede, the big trapper, who made the discovery, and his voice boomed loudly above the roar of the conversation:
“By ! De los’ boy! Look! I’m be a liar, if it ain’t de leetle boy ’imself.”
The roar of conversation broke abruptly. It was not a slowing down, but a sudden silence. Even the whirr of the roulette and the rattle of poker-chips was stilled, as the crowd stared at the little overall-clad, dirty-faced youngster on the bar, who was looking at them.
There was a cleared space of several yards between Brick and the crowd. Silent had halted nearer the door. Brick could see Santel in the crowd. Hank Stagg was at the bar, just beyond Brick, staring wide-eyed at the youngster.
And before any one could voice a question Leach came striding in past Silent, but stopped quickly, wondering at the silence. He turned his eyes and saw little Whizzer. Meecham, well-dressed, came in, glanced quickly at the crowd and stopped almost against Silent.
“Well, I’ll be ed if it ain’t the kid!” exclaimed Bill Grant. “Where did yuh find him, Brick?”
But Brick did not reply. He was watching Whizzer.