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Old Man Curry took water, and the wise bartender, after one look at the stranger, drew it from a faucet. "How!" said Henry, tilting the poison into his system. "My regards!" said Old Man Curry, sipping his water slowly. "Same old bird!" ejaculated Ashbaugh, clapping Curry on the back. "Solomon on the brain! Speaking of birds, though, did you ever see one that could fly with only one wing?"
At this critical juncture the swinging doors opened to admit the friend, a tall, elderly man with a patriarchal white beard, clad in a battered black slouch hat and a venerable frock coat. Ashbaugh jumped up with a yell. "Well, you old son of a gun! It's good for sore eyes to see you! How long has it been, eh?" "Quite some years," answered Old Man Curry, allowing himself to be guided to the bar.
All day and all night the big ferryboat plied between Benicia and Port Costa, transferring rolling stock. While the trains were being made up on the Port Costa side passengers in need of liquid sustenance paid visits to the saloons. They got exactly what the transient may expect in any country. Henry Ashbaugh sat at a table in Martin Dugan's place and eyed the bartender truculently.
"I never did," was the grave response. "Have another?" "If you force me," said Ashbaugh, pouring out a second heavy dose. Old Man Curry took more water. Ashbaugh gulped once and passed the back of his hand over his lips. "We have talked of birds," said he, wheedlingly. "Leave us now talk of centipedes." "No," said Curry quietly. "No, I reckon not, Henry. There's something else to talk about.
"Then you won't talk about centipedes?" "Oh, well," smiled the old man, "I might discuss a three-legged critter with you once." "Put that bottle back on the bar!" said Ashbaugh. The overnight entry slips, given out on the day before the running of the Thornton Stakes, bore the name of the horse Pharaoh, together with that of his owner, C. T. Curry, whereat the wise men of the West chuckled.
Willard Pope, Mr. and Mrs. Gustavus Pope, Mrs. John B. Ford, Mrs. Delphine Dodge Ashbaugh and Mrs. Sherrard contributed nearly half of the amount required for the entire campaign. The teachers of Detroit financed a worker for several months, as did the Detroit business women. Many of the larger cities financed their own campaigns for the last six weeks.
"And how's the world been usin' you, Henry?" "It's been using me rough, awful rough," replied Ashbaugh. "I ain't even got the price of a drink." Curry laid a silver coin upon the bar. "Have one with me," said he. "Don't mind if I do," said Ashbaugh, and poured out a stiff libation of water-front whisky.
You got my telegram?" "This afternoon," said Ashbaugh with a lingering glance at the bottle. "That's why I'm here." "You've still got your place out on the Martinez road?" asked Old Man Curry. "I can't get rid of it," was the answer. "I'd like to take a hoss down there and put him up for a few weeks, Henry." "The place is all yours!" said Ashbaugh with wide gestures. "All yours!
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