A Feint
den like, I couldn't see very well. My mistake, Stranger. What'll you have?"
Johnny grunted skeptically. "Yo're shore you can see all right now?"
"It's all right, Nelson," hastily interposed the anxious proprietor, nodding emphatic assurance. "It's all right!"
"My mistake, Mr. Nelson," smiled the stranger. "I shouldn't 'a' been so hasty—but I was fooled. Yore looks are shore misleadin'."
"They suits me. What's wrong about 'em?" demanded Johnny.
"There you go again!" snorted Pop in quick disgust. "A gent makes a mistake, says he didn't mean no harm in it, an' you goes on th' prod! Didn't I tell you that yore looks would get you into trouble? Didn't I?"
"Oh! Is that it?" He arose and slipped the gun back into its holster. "I'll take th' same, Stranger."
"Now yo're gettin' some sense," beamed Pop, smiling with relief. "Mr. Nelson, shake han's with Tom Quigley. Here's luck."
"Fill 'em again," grinned Johnny. "Not that I hankers for th' kind of liquor you sells, but because we has to do th' best we can with what's pervided."
"Pop's sellin' better liquor than he used to," smiled Quigley. "Am I to thank you for th' improvement?"
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