Now, that was a compliment, but I don’t believe I took it just the way Frosty meant I should.  I was proud as thunder to have him call me a “Ragged H man” so unconsciously.  It showed that he really thought of me simply as one of the boys; that the “son and heir” view-point—­oh, that had always rankled, deep down where we bury unpleasant things in our memory—­had been utterly forgotten.  So the tribute to my nerve didn’t go for anything beside that.  I was a “Ragged H man,” on the same footing as the rest of them.  It’s silly owning it, but it gave me a little tingle of pleasure to have one of dad’s men call dad’s son and heir “a blasted fool.”  I don’t believe the Lord made me an aristocrat.

We didn’t see anything more of King till supper was called.  At Pochette’s you sit down to a long table covered with dark-red mottled oilcloth and sprinkled with things to eat, and watch that your elbow doesn’t cause your nearest neighbor to do the sword-swallowing act involuntarily and disastrously with his knife, or—­you don’t eat.  Frosty and I had walked down to the ferry-crossing while we waited, and then were late getting into the game when we heard the summons.

We went in and sat down just as the Chinaman was handing thick cups of coffee around rather sloppily.  From force of habit I looked for my napkin, remembered that I was in a napkinless region, and glanced up to see if any one had noticed.

Just across from me old King was pushing back his chair and getting stiffly upon his feet.  He met my eyes squarely—­friend or enemy, I like a man to do that—­and scowled.

“Through already?” I reached for the sugar-bowl.

“What’s it to you, damn yuh?” he snapped, but we could see at a glance that King had not begun his meal.

I looked at Frosty, and he seemed waiting for me to say something.  So I said:  “Too bad—­we Ragged H men are such mighty slow eaters.  If it’s on my account, sit right down and make yourself comfortable.  I don’t mind; I dare say I’ve eaten in worse company.”

He went off growling, and I leaned back and stirred my coffee as leisurely as if I were killing time over a bit of crab in the Palace, waiting for my order to come.  Frosty, I observed, had also slowed down perceptibly; and so we “toyed with the viands” just like a girl in a story—­in real life, I’ve noticed, girls develop full-grown appetites and aren’t ashamed of them.  King went outside to wait, and I’m sure I hope he enjoyed it; I know we did.  We drank three cups of coffee apiece, ate a platter of fried fish, and took plenty of time over the bones, got into an argument over who was Lazarus with the fellow at the end of the table, and were too engrossed to eat a mouthful while it lasted.  We had the bad manners to pick our teeth thoroughly with the wooden toothpicks, and Frosty showed me how to balance a knife and fork on a toothpick—­or, perhaps, it was two—­on the edge of his cup.  I tried it several times, but couldn’t make it work.