“I am. Are you?”
“I begs pardon, gentlemen, but I’m looking for a Mr. Wardner,” says a
voice at the door, and we turns around to see a little feller in knee
panties, and wearing the most dignified face we ever seen. We looks at
him and then at each other.
“I repeats,” says he, “I am looking for Mr. Wardner.”
“Does you know this frozen-faced tip-up, Bartender?” asks Taos, but the
hooch-handler shakes his head.
“I was sent to direct ’im ’ome,” says the little one, dignified-like.
Dog-gone him, he ain’t changed expression since he came in.
“He’s a director,” grins Taos. “Have a drink?”
“Beg pardon, sir, but Mrs. Wardner wishes----”
“Sounds like a fairy tale,” says Taos. “They used to have three wishes.”
“Beg pardon, sir, but she’s frantic, sir.”
“Taos,” says I, “shall we kill it outright or put it in pickle?”
“I begs pardon, sir--” begins the little one, when Taos grabs him by the
shoulder.
“What’s your name, feller?”
“Hicks, sir.”
“Have a drink, Hicks?”
“No, sir. Not any, if you please----”
“Whisky or something stronger?” asks Taos.
I’ve seen teetotalers who were as big as a house cave right in and drink
themselves under the table when Taos asked them that question in just
his own way.
“Mostly anything, sir,” says Hicks, after one look at Taos’ eyes.