Blister was pleased, but he did not say so. “Takes a good man to start on a s-shoestring an’ make it go with cattle.”
“That’s why we’re going into it,” Bob modestly explained.
Mollie broke in. “What are you boys loafin’ here for when I need help in the dining-room? Can either of you sling hash?”
The fat man derricked himself out of the chairs. “We can. L-lead us to the job, ma’am.”
So it happened that Blister, in a white apron, presently stood before the Governor ready to take orders. The table was strewn with used dishes and food, débris left there by previous diners. The amateur waiter was not sure whether the Governor and his staff had eaten or were ready to eat.
“D-do you want a r-reloadin’ outfit?” he asked.
The general, seated beside the Governor, had lived his life in the East. He stared at Blister in surprise, for at a council held only an hour before this ample waiter had been the chief spokesman in behalf of fair play to the Indians. He decided that the dignified thing to do was to fail to recognize the man.
Blister leaned toward the Governor and whispered confidentially. “Say, Gov, take my tip an’ try one o’ these here steaks. They ain’t from dogy stock.”
The Governor had been a cattleman himself. The free-and-easy ways of the West did not disturb him. “Go you once, Blister,” he assented.
The waiter turned beaming on the officer. His fat hand rested on the braided shoulder. “How about you, Gen? Does that go d-double?”