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Updated: May 18, 2025
More than one horse and canoe and cow and ox, and acre of land, in the days when land was cheap, had come to him across the bar-counter. He could be bought, could Barbazon, and he sold more than wine and spirits.
In the tavern at that moment, Pretty Pierrre was sitting on the bar-counter, where temperance drinks were professedly sold, singing to himself. His dress was singularly neat, if coarse, and his slouch hat was worn with an air of jauntiness according well with his slight make and almost girlish delicacy of complexion. He was puffing a cigarette, in the breaks of the song.
It was plain that Pilmansey's was the sort of place wherein you could get a good sandwich, good tea or coffee, smoke a cigarette or two, and idle away an hour in light chatter with your friends between your morning and afternoon labours. But Lauriston's attention was mainly directed to the two men who stood behind the bar-counter, superintending and directing their neat assistants.
Mr Latter emerged panting, in audible bodily distress. His search had been longer than Nicky-Nan's, but it was successful. He straightened himself up and held out the coin to the light. "A sovereign! . . . I'll have to go out an' fetch change. A sovereign, send I may never!" He rang it on the bar-counter. "I'll step along an' get change from the Bank."
I've got him like that!" he said transferring the cigarette to his mouth, and clenching his right hand as though it could not be loosed by an earthquake. "For sure, it's a thing finished as the solder of a pannikin like that." He caught up a tin quart-pot from the bar-counter and showed the soldered bottom of it.
The mob moved again towards the bar. The big river-driver turned on the grizzled old man beside the bar-counter with bent shoulders and lazy, drawling speech. "What've you got to say about it, son?" he asked threateningly. "Well, to ask a few questions first that's all," the old man replied. "You don't belong here, old cock," the other said roughly.
And in what walk of life, or dance of life, does man ever get such stimulating applause as thunders about him, when, having danced his partner off her feet, and himself too, he finishes by leaping gloriously on the bar-counter, and calling for something to drink, with the chuckle of a million of counterfeit Jim Crows, in one inimitable sound!
I will take coffee, if Jen Galbraith will make some. Too much broke glass inside is not good. Yes." Galbraith went into the sitting-room to ask Jen to make the coffee. Pierre, still sitting on the bar-counter, sang to himself a verse of a rough-and-ready, satirical prairie ballad: "The Riders of the Plains, my boys, are twenty thousand strong Oh, Lordy, don't they make the prairies howl!
Martin growled and walked behind the bar-counter. "You have some curious residents in this neighborhood." "Too curious by half." "Cassim, for instance, is not an English name." Martin indulged in that rumbling sound which was his only form of laughter. "English!" he said. "He's as black as your hat!" My hat chanced to be gray, but I followed the idea nevertheless, and: "What!"
And of those left behind, one was a broken-spirited old man with sorrow melting away the sinister look in his face; one, a girl hovering between the tempest of bitterness and a storm of self-reproach; and one a half-breed gambler, who again sat on the bar-counter smoking a cigarette and singing to himself, as indolently as if he were not in the presence of a painful drama of life, perhaps a tragedy.
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