I was glad they labelled her. I'd never have known it. They had a fifteen-year old kid tendin' bar, no games goin', and not a soul in the place. "Sorry to disturb your repose, bub," says I, "but see if you can sort out any rye among them collections of sassapariller of yours." I took a drink, and then another to keep it company--I was beginnin' to sympathise with anythin' lonesome. Then I kind of sauntered out to the back room where the hurdy-gurdy ought to be. Sure enough, there was a girl settin' on the pianner stool, another in a chair, and a nice shiny Jew drummer danglin' his feet from a table. They looked up when they see me come in, and went right on talkin'. "Hello, girls!" says I. At that they stopped talkin' complete. "How's tricks?" says I. "Who's your woolly friend?" the shiny Jew asks of the girls. I looked at him a minute, but I see he'd been raised a pet, and then, too, I was so hungry for sassiety I was willin' to pass a bet or two. "Don't you ADMIRE these cow gents?" snickers one of the girls. "Play somethin', sister," says I to the one at the pianner. She just grinned at me. "Interdooce me," says the drummer in a kind of a way that made them all laugh a heap. "Give us a tune," I begs, tryin' to be jolly, too. "She don't know any pieces," says the Jew. "Don't you?" I asks pretty sharp. "No," says she. "Well, I do," says I. I walked up to her, jerked out my guns, and reached around both sides of her to the pianner. I run the muzzles up and down the keyboard two or three times, and then shot out half a dozen keys. "That's the piece I know," says I. But the other girl and the Jew drummer had punched the breeze. The girl at the pianner just grinned, and pointed to the winder where they was some ragged glass hangin'. She was dead game. "Say, Susie," says I, "you're all right, but your friends is tur'ble. I may be rough, and I ain't never been curried below the knees, but I'm better to tie to than them sons of guns." "I believe it," says she. So we had a drink at the bar, and started out to investigate the wonders of Cyanide. Say, that night was a wonder. Susie faded after about three drinks, but I didn't seem to mind that. I hooked up to another saloon kept by a thin Dutchman. A fat Dutchman is stupid, but a thin one is all right. In ten minutes I had more friends in Cyanide than they is fiddlers in hell. I begun to conclude Cyanide wasn't so lonesome. About four o'clock in comes a little Irishman about four foot high, with more upper lip than a muley cow, and enough red hair to make an artificial aurorer borealis. He had big red hands with freckles pasted onto them, and stiff red hairs standin' up separate and lonesome like signal stations. Also his legs was bowed. He gets a drink at the bar, and stands back and yells: "God bless the Irish and let the Dutch rustle!"