The Swede pushed open
the door of the saloon and entered. A sanded expanse was before him,
and at the end of it four men sat about a table drinking. Down one
side of the room extended a radiant bar, and its guardian was
leaning upon his elbows listening to the talk of the men at the table.
The Swede dropped his valise upon the floor, and, smiling
fraternally upon the barkeeper, said: "Gimme some whisky, will you?"
The man placed a bottle, a whisky-glass, and glass of ice-thick
water upon the bar. The Swede poured himself an abnormal portion of
whisky and drank it in three gulps. "Pretty bad night," remarked the
bartender indifferently. He was making the pretension of blindness,
which is usually a distinction of his class; but it could have been
seen that he was furtively studying the half-erased blood-stains on
the face of the Swede. "Bad night," he said again.
"Oh, it's good enough for me," replied the Swede, hardily, as he
poured himself some more whisky. The barkeeper took his coin and
maneuvered it through its reception by the highly-nickeled
cash-machine. A bell rang; a card labeled "20 cts." had appeared.
"No," continued the Swede, "this isn't too bad weather. It's good
enough for me."
"So?" murmured the barkeeper languidly.
The copious drams made the Swede's eyes swim, and he breathed a
trifle heavier. "Yes, I like this weather. I like it.
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