“Quinin Quinn, eh? Dead? The son-of-a-gun! Whatcha drinkin’? Seen Swede Sam over there, too. He ain’t mixed up in it, is he? Whatcha drinkin’? Know Quinn? Never smiled. No sir, that hombre didn’t know how. Ain’t no reason for killin’ him off. Feller’s got a right to look sour, ain’t he? I’d sure have to have a good reason before I’d kill any man. Son-of-a-gun’s dead, eh? Well, well! Whatcha drinkin’?”
“See-gars,” said Hashknife grinning.
The bartender produced a well-worn cigar-box and disclosed a few dried-out perfectos.
“Ain’t many cigar smokers around here,” he volunteered. “Don’t pay to keep a big stock. Them’s real good Key Wests, y’betcha. I smoked one oncet. Got drunk and careless. ’F you lick them outside leaves, like you do a cigaret-paper, they’ll stick. Them Key Wests allus kinda unravels thataway. I stuck ’em oncet, but they——”
Two very bad cigars went into a cuspidor, and the bartender looked sad.
“I didn’t lick ’em,” he explained. “I used glue.”
“Tha’s all right,” grunted Hashknife. “A cigar ain’t never good after the first drag or two.”
The bartender turned and threw the two-bits into the till.
“Have a drink on the house?” he asked.
Hashknife shook his head.