At this they craned their necks and glared at him.

“We—­are—­sworn—­don’t yu’ jump, now, and give me away—­sworn—­to—­blow off three bootblacks to a dinner.”

“Ah, pshaw!” They backed away, bristling with distrust.

“That’s the oath, fellows.  Yu’ may as well make your minds up—­for I have it to do!”

“Dare you to!  Ah!”

“And after dinner it’s the Opera-house, to see ’The Children of Captain Cant’!”

They screamed shrilly at him, keeping off beyond the curb.

“I can’t waste my time on such smart boys,” said Mr. McLean, rising lazily to his full height from the window-sill.  “I am goin’ somewhere to find boys that ain’t so turruble quick stampeded by a roast turkey.”

He began to lounge slowly away, serious as he had been throughout, and they, stopping their noise short, swiftly picked up their boxes, and followed him.  Some change in the current of electricity that fed the window disturbed its sparkling light, so that Santa Claus, with his arms stretched out behind the departing cow-puncher seemed to be smiling more broadly from the midst of his flickering brilliance.

On their way to turkey, the host and his guests exchanged but few remarks.  He was full of good-will, and threw off a comment or two that would have led to conversation under almost any circumstances save these; but the minds of the guests were too distracted by this whole state of things for them to be capable of more than keeping after Mr. McLean in silence, at a wary interval, and with their mouths, during most of the journey, open.  The badge, the pistol, their patron’s talk, and the unusual dollars, wakened wide their bent for the unexpected, their street affinity for the spur of the moment; they believed slimly in the turkey part of it, but what this man might do next, to be there when he did it, and not to be trapped, kept their wits jumping deliciously; so when they saw him stop, they stopped instantly too, ten feet out of reach.  This was Denver’s most civilized restaurant—­that one which Mr. McLean had remembered, with foreign dishes and private rooms, where he had promised himself, among other things, champagne.  Mr. McLean had never been inside it, but heard a tale from a friend; and now he caught a sudden sight of people among geraniums, with plumes and white shirt-fronts, very elegant.  It must have been several minutes that he stood contemplating the entrance and the luxurious couples who went in.

“Plumb French!” he observed at length; and then, “Shucks!” in a key less confident, while his guests ten feet away watched him narrowly.  “They’re eatin’ patty de parley-voo in there,” he muttered, and the three bootblacks came beside him.  “Say, fellows,” said Lin, confidingly, “I wasn’t raised good enough for them dude dishes.  What do yu’ say!  I’m after a place where yu’ can mention oyster stoo without givin’ anybody a fit.  What do yu’ say, boys?”