"No tap for beer, as usual, sir," he said. "These poor Californians has much to learn."
Mr. Gilead P. Beck looked round mournfully.
"Everything gone but the fixin's," he sighed. "There used to be good beds, where there wasn't more'n two at once in them; and there used to be such a crowd around this bar as you would not find nearer'n St. Louis City."
"Hush!" said Jack, holding up his hand. There were steps.
Mr. Beck pricked up his ears.
"Chinamen, likely. If there's a row, gentlemen, give me something, if it's only a toothpick, to chime in with. But that's not a Chinese step; that's an Englishman's. He wears boots, but they are not miner's boots; he walks firm and slow, like all Englishmen; he is not in a hurry, like our folk. And who but an Englishman would be found staying behind in the Empire City when it's gone to pot?"
The footsteps came down the stairs.
"Most unhandsome of a ghost," said the younger man, "to walk before midnight."
The producer of the footsteps appeared.
"Told you he was an Englishman!" cried Mr. Beck.