“Listen,” argued Pondible; “I’m tapering off. You know me. Ive spent plenty of money here.”
The bartender shrugged. “I don’t own the place; anything goes over the bar has to be rung up on the cash register.”
“Youre lucky to have a job that pays wages.”
“Times I’m not so sure. Why don’t you indent?”
Pondible looked shocked. “At my age? What would a company pay for a wornout old carcass? A hundred dollars at the top. Then a release in a couple of years with a med holdback so I’d have to report every week somewhere. No, friend, Ive come through this long a free man—in a manner of speaking—and I’ll stick it out. Let’s have that shot; you can see for yourself I’m tapering off. Youll get your jack tomorrow.” I could see the bartender was weakening; each refusal was less surly and at last, to my astonishment, he set out a glass and bottle for Pondible and an earthenware mug of buttermilk for me. To my astonishment, I say, for credit was rarely extended on any scale, large or small. The inflation, though sixty years in the past, had left indelible impressions; people paid cash or did without. Debt was not only disgraceful, it was dangerous; the notion things could be paid for while, or even after, they were being used was as unthinkable as was the idea of circulating paper money instead of silver or gold.
I drank my buttermilk slowly, gratefully aware Pondible had ordered the most filling and sustaining liquid in the saloon. For all his unprepossessing appearance and peculiar moral notions, my new acquaintance seemed to have a rude wisdom as well as a rude kindliness.
He swallowed his whiskey and called for a quart pot of light beer which he sipped slowly. “That’s the trick of it, Hodge. Avoid the second shot. If you can.” He sipped again. “Now what?”
“What?” I repeated.
“Now what are you going to do? What’s your aim in life anyway?”
“None—now. I ... wanted to learn. To study.” He frowned. “Out of books?”