He tried and missed an easy shot; he chalked his cue with assiduous
care.
"Here, you! Quit knockin' those balls round!" bawled Max, the
bartender. "What you think this is--a kindergarten?"
"Why, I paid for all the games I lost, didn't I?" asked Pringle, much
abashed.
He mopped his face. It was warm, though the windows and doors were
open.
"Well, nobody's going to play any more with you," snapped Max. "You
bore 'em."
He pyramided the balls and covered the table. With a sad and lingering
backward look Pringle slouched abjectly through the wide-arched
doorway to the bar.
"Come on, fellers--have something."
"Naw!" snarled Jose Espalin. "I'm a-tryin' to theenk. Shut up, won't
you?"
Pringle sighed patiently at the rebuff and stole a timid glance at the
thinker. Espalin was a lean little, dried-up manikin, with legs,
arms, and mustaches disproportionately long for his dwarfish body. His
black, wiry hair hung in ragged witchlocks; his black pin-point eyes
were glittering, cold, and venomous. He looked, thought Pringle, very
much like a spider.
"I'm steerin' you right, old man," said Creagan. "You'd better drag it
for bed."
"I ain't sleepy, I tell you."
Espalin leaped up, snarling.
"Say! You lukeing for troubles, maybe? Bell, I theenk thees _hombre_
got a gun.
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