“Ah-h-h,” drawled Nash softly, “I thought so.”

“You did?”

“Anyway, let’s hear the story.  Another drink—­on me, Flanders.”

“It was like this.  Along about evening of yesterday Sandy was in here with a couple of other boys.  He was pretty well lighted—­the glow was circulatin’ promiscuous, in fact—­when in comes a feller about your height, Steve, but lighter.  Goodlookin’, thin face, big dark eyes like a girl.  He carried the signs of a long ride on him.  Well, sir, he walks up to the bar and says:  ’Can you make me a very sour lemonade, Mr. Bartender?’

“I grabbed the edge of the bar and hung tight.

“‘A which?’ says I.

“‘Lemonade, if you please.’

“I rolled an eye at Sandy, who was standin’ there with his jaw falling, and then I got busy with lemons and the squeezer, but pretty soon Ferguson walks up to the stranger.

“‘Are you English?’ he asks.

“I knew by his tone what was comin’, so I slid the gun I keep behind the bar closer and got prepared for a lot of damaged crockery.

“‘I?’ says the tenderfoot.  ‘Why, no.  What makes you ask?’

“‘Your damned funny way of talkin’,’ says Sandy.

“‘Oh,’ says the greenhorn, nodding as if he was thinkin’ this over and discovering a little truth in it.  ’I suppose the way I talk is a little unusual.’

“‘A little rotten,’ says Sandy.  ‘Did I hear you askin’ for a lemonade?’

“‘You did.’

“‘Would I seem to be askin’ too many questions,’ says Sandy, terrible polite, ‘if I inquires if bar whisky ain’t good enough for you?’

“The tenderfoot, he stands there jest as easy as you an’ me stand here now, and he laughed.

“He says:  ’The bar whisky I’ve tasted around this country is not very good for any one, unless, perhaps, after a snake has bitten you.  Then it works on the principle of poison fight poison, eh?’

“Sandy says after a minute:  ’I’m the most quietest, gentle, innercent cowpuncher that ever rode the range, but I’d tell a man that it riles me to hear good bar whisky insulted like this.  Look at me!  Do I look as if whisky ain’t good for a man?’

“‘Why,’ says the tenderfoot, ‘you look sort of funny to me.’

“He said it as easy as if he was passin’ the morning with Ferguson, but I seen that it was the last straw with Sandy.  He hefted out both guns and trained ’em on the greenhorn.

“I yelled:  ‘Sandy, for God’s sake, don’t be killin’ a tenderfoot!’

“‘If whisky will kill him he’s goin’ to die,’ says Sandy.  ’Flanders, pour out a drink of rye for this gent.’

“I did it, though my hand was shaking a lot, and the chap takes the glass and raises it polite, and looks at the colour of it.  I thought he was goin’ to drink, and starts wipin’ the sweat off’n my forehead.

“But this chap, he sets down the glass and smiles over to Sandy.

“‘Listen,’ he says, still grinnin’, ’in the old days I suppose this would have been a pretty bluff, but it won’t work with me now.  You want me to drink this glass of very bad whisky, but I’m sure that you don’t want it badly enough to shoot me.