“Feller that’d use glue on cigars is liable to put cyanid in his hooch. Who owns this ornate parlor?”
“‘Spot’ Easton. Didja ever hear of Spot?”
Hashknife leaned against the bar and admitted that he did not know the gentleman. Just at this moment a man came in the door, a frowsy looking man, with drink-bleared eyes and uncertain step. He slouched up to the bar and leered at the bartender; a leer which was intended to be an ingratiating smile, but which missed by a wide margin.
“Nossir!” The bartender shook his head violently. “Spot said to lay off givin’ you liquor, ‘Lonesome’.”
“Spot did?” The old man seemed surprized to hear it.
He wiped the back of his hand across his lips and stared at the mirror on the back-bar. There was no question but what he needed a bracer; his whole nervous system cried out for assistance.
“You get the drink, grampaw,” said Hashknife, tossing a two-bit piece on the bar.
“Spot don’t want him—” began the bartender.
“Hooch!” snapped Hashknife. “What in —— do I care what Spot wants?”
“He’ll get sore about it,” argued the bartender.