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Updated: May 11, 2025
Hence, in the bar-keeper's view, I was one who deserved a civil word; and thus talking together on the best of terms, I swallowed my second julep, and called upon him for a third, Aurore was for the moment forgotten, or when remembered, it was with less of bitterness.
He did not return the bar-keeper's salutation, but he asked, as he sat down at a table, "What do I want for supper, Charley?" The bar-keeper said, oracularly, as he leaned forward to wipe his counter with a napkin, "Fricassee chicken." "Fricassee devil," returned the manager. "Get me a Welsh rabbit."
One of the bar-keeper's confidential friends sent him a slip of paper, on which was written, "His only mode of escape is by the window;" and the bar-keeper, who had previously shown himself decidedly unfriendly, urged him again and again to profit by this advice.
He lifted his empty glass from the table, and, catching the bar-keeper's eye, said, "Do it again." The man brought it back full. "It runs through the churches as well as the theatres. As long as the public wanted hell-fire, the ministers gave them hell-fire. But you couldn't get hell-fire not the pure, old-fashioned brimstone article out of a popular preacher now, for love or money."
"Have you seen anything of Frank this afternoon?" he inquired of Matthew, after we had passed a few words. "Nothing," was the bar-keeper's answer. "I saw him with Tom Wilkins as I came over," said one of the men who was sitting in the porch. "What was he doing with Tom Wilkins?" said Slade, in a fretted tone of voice. "He doesn't seem very choice in his company." "They were gunning." "Gunning!"
The bar-keeper's face cleared instantly, and he set about preparing the beverage required. "Won't you have something in it?" he asked. "No, sir," said Frank. "You boys are kept out pretty late," said the bar-keeper, socially. "Not every night," said Frank. "We take turns." Frank paid ten cents for his lemonade, and, passing into the billiard-saloon, sat down and watched a game.
"Where's the girls?" Hootchinoo Bill shouted, with affected geniality. "Gone," was the ancient bar-keeper's reply, in a voice thin and aged as himself, and as unsteady as his hand. "Where's Bidwell and Barlow?" "Gone." "And Sweetwater Charley?" "Gone." "And his sister?" "Gone too." "Your daughter Sally, then, and her little kid?" "Gone, all gone."
But, after this, they proceeded promptly to business; the Judge, who was rather slow on his guard, was the owner of a badly cut arm within three minutes by the bar-keeper's watch, but not until he had given Billy, who was parrying a thrust, an ugly gash in his left temple.
I will meet them and beat them at their own game. Craft for craft, and I can wait. For Irma's sake!" On his way to the office for the first time he steadied his nerve with the bar-keeper's aid. The blood bounded in his pulses under the unaccustomed stimulant. He was devil-may-care in his manner as he listlessly turned over his morning mail, thrusting his pistol back into the bank portmanteau.
The only answer to this was an ill-natured frown, and an expression of face which said almost as plainly as words, "It is none of your business." "Not there," said Matthew, now coming in. "Are you certain?" "Yes, sir." But there was a certain involuntary hesitation in the bar-keeper's manner, which led to a suspicion that his answer was not in accordance with the truth.
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