And Alonzo had got a second start. Still he wasn't so bad yet,
with Beryl Mae's scarf over his arm, and talking of the unparalleled
beauties of Price's Addition to Red Gap, which he said he wouldn't trade
even for the whole of Alaska if it was offered to him to-morrow--not
that Ben Sutton wasn't the whitest soul God ever made and he'd like to
hear some one say different--and so on.
"I mixed in with 'em and took a friendly drink myself, with the aim of
smoothing things down, but I saw it would be delicate work. About all I
could do was keep 'em reminded there was ladies present and it wasn't a
barroom where anything could be rightly started. Doc Martingale's
feelings was running high, too, account, I suppose, of certain
full-hearted things his wife had blurted out to him about the hypnotic
eyes of this here Nature lover. He was quiet enough, but vicious, acting
like he'd love to do some dental work on the poet that might or might
not be painless for all he cared a hoot. He was taking his own drinks
all alone, like clockwork--moody but systematic.
"Then we hear chairs pushed round in the other room and the chink of
silver to be offered to the poet, and Henrietta come out to give word
for the refreshments to be served.
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