Merritt put forth exertions on the dinner. Greenbrier was his old friend, and he liked him. He persuaded him to drink a cocktail.
“I take the horehound tea,” said Greenbrier, “for old times’ sake. But I’d prefer whiskey straight. They’re on you.”
“Right!” said Merritt. “Now, run your eye down that bill of fare and see if it seems to hitch on any of the items.”
“Lay me on my lava bed!” said Greenbrier, with bulging eyes. “All these specimens of nutriment in the grub wagon! What’s this? Horse with the heaves? I pass. But look along! Here’ truck for twenty roundups all spelled out in different sections. Wait till I see.”
The viands ordered, Merritt turned to the wine list.
“This Medoc isn’t bad,” he suggested.
“You’re the doc,” said Greenbrier. “I’d rather have whiskey straight. It’s on you.”
Greenbrier looked around the room. The waiter brought things and took dishes away. He was observing. He saw a New York restaurant crowd enjoying itself.
“How was the range when you left the Gila?” asked Merritt.
“Fine,” said Greenbrier. “You see that lady in the red speckled silk at that table? Well, she could warm over her beans at my campfire. Yes, the range was
