"Hoity-toity!" he sniffed with exaggerated concern. "Who th' hell is this, now? One of them little white-ribbon boys, fresh from the East, I bet ye, travellin' for the W. P. S. Q. T. H'm-m--tech me not--oh deah!" He hiked up his shoulders, twisted his head to a pose, and shrilled his final sarcasms in the tones of a finicky old lady; but the stranger stuck resolutely to his reading, whereupon the black barkeeper went sullen and took a drink by himself. Like many a good mixer, Mr. Brady of the Hotel Bender was often too good a patron of his own bar, and at such times he developed a mean streak, with symptoms of homicidal mania, which so far had kept the town marshal guessing. Under these circumstances, and with the rumor of a killing at Fort Worth to his credit, Black Tex was accustomed to being humored in his moods, and it went hard with him to be called down in the middle of a spectacular play, and by a rank stranger, at that. The chair-warmers of the Hotel Bender bar therefore discreetly ignored the unexpected rebuke of their chief and proceeded noisily with their games, but the old man who had paid for the drinks was no such time-server. After tucking what was left of his money back into his overalls he balanced against the bar railing for a while and then steered straight for the dark corner. "Young feller," he said, leaning heavily upon the table where the stranger was reading, "I'm old Bill Johnson, of Hell's Hip Pocket, and I wan'er shake hands with you!" The young man looked up quickly and the card players stopped as suddenly in their play, for Old Man Johnson was a fighter in his cups. But at last the stranger showed signs of friendliness. As the old man finished speaking he rose with the decorum of the drawing-room and extended his white hand cordially. "I'm very glad to meet you, Mr. Johnson," he said. "Won't you sit down?" "No," protested the old man, "I do' wanner sit down--I wanner ask you a question." He reeled, and balanced himself against a chair. "I wanner ask you," he continued, with drunken gravity, "on the squar', now, did you ever drink?" "Why, yes, Uncle," replied the younger man, smiling at the question, "I used to take a friendly glass, once in a while--but I don't drink now." He added the last with a finality not to be mistaken, but Mr. Johnson of Hell's Hip Pocket was not there to urge him on. "No, no," he protested. "You're mistaken, Mister--er--Mister--" "Hardy," put in the little man. "Ah yes--Hardy, eh? And a dam' good name, too. I served under a captain by that name at old Fort Grant, thirty years ago. Waal, Hardy, I like y'r face--you look honest--but I wanner ask you 'nuther question--why don't you drink now, then?" Hardy laughed indulgently, and his eyes lighted up with good humor, as if entertaining drunken men was his ordinary diversion. "Well, I'll tell you, Mr. Johnson," he said. "If I should drink whiskey the way you folks down here do, I'd get drunk."