"Smoke?" he asked.
Now a man of the mountain-desert knows a great many things, but he does
not know how to refuse. The proffer of a gift embarrasses him, but he
knows no way of avoiding it; also he never rests easy until he has made
some return.
"Sure," said the man, and gathered in the tobacco and papers. "Thanks!"
He covertly dropped the cigarette which he had just lighted, and stepped
on it, then he rolled another from Haw-Haw's materials. The while, he
kept an uneasy eye on his new companion.
"Drinkin'?" he asked at length.
"Not jest now," said Haw-Haw carelessly.
"Always got room for another," protested the other, still more in
earnest as he saw his chance of a return disappearing.
"All right, then," said Haw-Haw. "Jest one more."
And he poured a glass to the brim, waved it gracefully towards the
others without spilling a drop, and downed it at a gulp.
"Ben in town long?" he asked.
"Not long enough to find any action," answered the other.
The eye of Haw-Haw Langley brightened. He looked over the two carefully.
The one had black hair and the other red, but they were obviously
brothers, both tall, thick-shouldered, square-jawed, and pug-nosed.
There was Irish blood in that twain; the fire in their eyes could have
come from only one place on earth. And Haw-Haw grinned and looked down
the length of the room to where Mac Strann sat, a heavy, inert mass, his
fleshy forehead puckered into a half-frown of animal wistfulness.
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