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"This is the first time that ever happened to me. Why, some coyote stole it! Look at the tracks!" "No; it ain't stolen," the bartender responded. He considered a moment and then made a suggestion. "Mebby the marshal can tell you where it is he knows everything like that. Nobody can take a cayuse out of this town while the marshal is up an' well." "Lucky town, all right," chirped Fisher.
But the bartender KNOWS that those men belong to the Great American Association for the Manufacture of Drunkards through "treating." Each of those men might perhaps take his glass of beer, or even something worse, with relative safety. But, as stupidly as stampeded animals pushing each other over a precipice, each insists on buying poison in his turn.
As his friends endeavoured to raise him, as I stood back against the counter, panting, I heard a battering at the main door of the saloon which had been closed at the commencement of the scuffle. "Here, sir, quick!" cried the sympathetic bartender to me. "The cops! Out the back door like hell!"
To those of us who do not belong to that few of the race of Dives there is satisfaction in turning over the old bills-of-fare, and musing on the repasts that were once within the reach of the purses of the humble. When Horace Greeley arrived in New York in 1831, he had ten dollars in his pocket and knew no one in the city. He entered a tavern. The bartender looked him over superciliously.
The latter favored him with one searching glance, and then pushed across the whisky bottle. "Do you know me?" asked Andrew with surprise. And then he could have cursed his careless tongue. "I know you need a drink," said the bartender, looking at Andrew again. Suddenly he grinned. "When a man's been dry that long he gets a hungry look around the eyes that I know. Hit her hard, boy."
The party of the second part was one Hinckley, a young highbrow who knew so much that it took the college faculty a long time to discover that he was worth more'n an assistant bartender and almost as much as a fourth-rate movie actor. Then, too, Myra's father had something lingerin' the matter with him, and wouldn't let anybody manage him but her. Hymen hobbled by both hind feet, as you might say.
A man coming from a far Western village, and visiting Boston for the first time, is said to have approached a bartender, in an exclusive hotel, thus confidentially: "Excuse me, but I am a stranger in this part of the country, and I want to ask a question.
The spirit of the occasion takes hold of the stately bartender, who condescends to a plate of stewed duck; even the fat policeman whose duty it will be, later in the evening, to break up the fights draws up a chair to the foot of the table.
"Never mind about the bartender let him alone; we can't waste no time with him now!" commanded the leader sharply. "Get these fellers on board before we're caught with 'em. We want our money after that." "All clear!" came a low call from the lookout at the door, and soon a shadowy mass surged across the street and along a wharf.
It was strange to them, but Banker shivered and shrank from the grinning bartender. "Stop it, yuh darn fool! yuh gi' me the creeps! W'at's the matter with everything to-day? Everywhere I go some one starts gabblin' about mines and French Pete an' this all-fired Louisiana! It's a damn good thing there ain't any more like him around here." "W'at's that about mines an' French Pete?
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