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Slavin's face cleared and he emitted a weary sigh of relief. "As you will, yeh're Worship," he said. "T'will be helpin' me out, tu . . . yeh undhershtand?" His meaning stare drew a comprehensive nod from Gully. "I have not a man tu shpare for escort just now." He turned to the hobo. "Fwhat say yu', me man?" was his curt ultimatum, "Fwhat say yu' tu th' kindniss av his Worship?
To his surprise came Slavin's soft brogue echoing the last lines of the old Shakespearian sonnet, with a sort of dreamy, gentle bitterness: "As binifits forghot forghot! as binifits forghot! . . . . Luk tu that now! eyah! 'tis th' trute, lad! . . . . for here unless I am mistuk, comes me bould Yorkey an' dhrunk as 'a fiddler's again. Tchkk! an' me on'y just afther warnin' um. . . ."
"Why! what's up?" he queried with a crestfallen air, as he beheld Slavin's angry, worried countenance. "Damnation!" muttered the latter softly and savagely to Yorke. "This means another thrip tu Calgary wid this 'bo' an' me not able tu shpare ye just now. Fwhat wid all this other bizness I'd forgotten all 'bout him. An' we'd vagged him sooner Ridmond might have taken th' tu av thim down tugither.
It is said that Idaho was industriously pursuing his avocation in Slavin's, with his 'gun' lying upon the card-table convenient to his hand, when in walked policeman Jackson, her Majesty's sole representative in the Black Rock district.
'Oh, mon Jesu, prenez moi aussi, take me wiz mon mignon. The cry wakened Slavin's heart, and he said huskily 'Oh! Annette! Annette! 'Ah, oui! an' Michael too! Then to Mr. Craig 'You tink He's tak me some day? Eh? 'All who love Him, he replied. 'An' Michael too? she asked, her eyes searching his face, 'An' Michael too? But Craig only replied: 'All who love Him.
'Na! na! lad, but juist the wee drap whusky. It's nae that guid onyway, and it's a terrible price. Man, gin ye gang tae Henderson's in Buchanan Street, in Gleska, ye ken, ye'll get mair for three-an'-saxpence than ye wull at Slavin's for five dollars. An' it'll no' pit ye mad like yon stuff, but it gangs doon smooth an' saft-like.
McCullough, busily burnishing a bit, shrugged deprecatingly and laughed. Hardy, putting the last touches to his revolver-holster, made answer, George thought, with peculiar reticence. "Wot, Yorkey? . . . oh, 'e's a 'oly terror 'e is. . . . You arst Crampton," he mumbled "arst Taylor they wos at Davidsburg wiv 'im. Slavin's orl right but Yorkey!". . . He looked unutterable things.
He was a character in his way, fond of his glass; but though he was never known to refuse a drink, he was never known to be drunk. He took his drink, for the most part, with bread and cheese in his own shack, or with a friend or two in a sober, respectable way, but never could be induced to join the wild carousals in Slavin's saloon.
It was for scarcely an instant, yet it served; for as he bent aside, swinging his burly opponent with him, some one struck a vicious blow at his back; but the descending knife, missing its mark, sunk instead deep into Slavin's breast. Hampton saw the flash of a blade, a hand, a portion of an arm, and then the clutching fingers of Slavin swept him down.
And we could say nothing in reply, for we could hear Nixon snoring in the next room, and no one had heard of Billy, and there were others of the League that we knew were even now down at Slavin's. It was thought best that all should remain in Mr. Craig's shack, not knowing what might happen; and so we lay where we could and we needed none to sing us to sleep.
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