“She can make a punkin pie,
     Quick’s a cat can wink her eye—­”

Something was going on, over in the dimly lighted corner near the door.  Half a dozen men had grouped themselves there with their backs to Billy and they were talking and laughing; but the speech of them was an unintelligible clamor and their laughter a commingling roar.  Billy gravely inspected his cigarette, which had gone cold, set down the glass and sought diligently for a match.

“Aw, come on an’ have one on me!” bawled a voice peremptorily.  “Yuh can’t raise no wild cattle around this joint, lessen yuh wet up good with whisky.  Why, a feller as long as you be needs a good jolt for every foot of yuh—­and that’s about fifteen when you’re lengthened out good.  Come on—­don’t be a damn’ chubber!  Yuh got to sample m’ hospitality.  Hey, Tom! set out about a quart uh your mildest for Daffy-down-Dilly.  He’s dry, clean down to his hand-made socks.”

Charming Billy, having found a match, held it unlighted in his fingers and watched the commotion from his perch on the bar.  In the very midst of the clamor towered the melancholy Alexander P. Dill, and he was endeavoring to explain, in his quiet, grammatical fashion.  A lull that must have been an accident carried the words clearly across to Charming Billy.

“Thank you, gentlemen.  I really don’t care for anything in the way of refreshment.  I merely came in to find a friend who has promised to spend the night with me.  It is getting along toward bedtime.  Have your fun, gentlemen, if you must—­but I am really too tired to join you.”

“Make ’im dance!” yelled the sheepherder, giving over the attempt to find the sum of twelve and fourteen.  “By gosh, yuh made me dance when I struck town.  Make ’im dance!”

“You go off and lay down!” commanded Billy again, and to emphasize his words leaned and emptied the contents of his glass neatly inside the collar of the sheepherder.  “Cool down, yuh Ba-ba-black-sheep!”

The herder forgot everything after that—­everything but the desire to tear limb from limb one Charming Billy Boyle, who sat and raked his spurs up and down the marred front of the bar and grinned maliciously down at him.  “Go-awn off, before I take yuh all to pieces,” he urged wearily, already regretting the unjustifiable waste of good beer.  “Quit your buzzing; I wanta listen over there.”

“Come on ‘n’ have a drink!” vociferated the hospitable one.  “Yuh got to be sociable, or yuh can’t stop in this man’s town.”  So insistent was he that he laid violent hold of Mr. Dill and tried to pull him bodily to the bar.

“Gentlemen, this passes a joke!” protested Mr. Dill, looking around him in his blankly melancholy way.  “I do not drink liquor.  I must insist upon your stopping this horseplay immediately!”

“Oh, it ain’t no play,” asserted the insistent one darkly.  “I mean it, by thunder.”