“Yas, suh,” agreed the negro with a noncommittal grin.

“While you can buy accommodations in a graveyard or break into a penitentiary, don’t you ever live in St. Jo Missouri, George.”

The man in the adjacent seat half turned toward Dr. Surtaine and looked him up and down, with a freezing regard.

“It’s the sink-hole and sewer-pipe of creation, George.  They once elected a chicken-thief mayor, and he resigned because the town was too mean to live in.  Ever know any folks there, George?”

“Don’t have no mem’ry for ’em, Doctah.”

“You’re lucky again.  They’re the orneriest, lowest-down, minchin’, pinchin’, pizen trash that ever tainted the sweet air of Heaven by breathing it, George.”

“You don’ sesso, Doctah Suhtaine, suh.”

“I do sess precisely so, George.  Does the name McQuiggan mean anything to you?”

“Don’ mean nothin’ at-tall to me, Doctah.”

“You got away from St. Jo in time, then.  Otherwise you might have met the McQuiggan family, and never been the same afterward.”

“Ef you don’ stop youah feet a-fidgittin’, Boss,” interpolated the neighboring bootblack, addressing the green-hatted man in aggrieved tones, “I cain’t do no good wif this job.”

“McQuiggan was the name,” continued the volunteer biographer.  “The best you could say of the McQuiggans, George, was that one wasn’t much cusseder than the others, because he couldn’t be.  Human nature has its limitations, George.”

“It suttinly have, suh.”

“But if you had to allow a shade to any of ’em, it would probably have gone to the oldest brother, L.P.  McQuiggan.  Barring a scorpion I once sat down on while in swimming, he was the worst outrage upon the scheme of creation ever perpetrated by a short-sighted Providence.”

“Get out of that chair!”

The little man had shot from his own and was dancing upon the pavement.

“What for?” Dr. Surtaine’s tone was that of inquiring innocence.

“To have your fat head knocked off.”

With impressive agility for one of his size and years, the challenged one descended.  He advanced, “squared,” and suddenly held out a muscular and plump hand.

“Hullo, Elpy.”

“Huh?”

The other glared at him, baleful and baffled.

“Hullo, I said.  Don’t you know me?”

“No, I don’t.  Neither will your own family after I get through with you.”

“Come off, Elpy; come off.  I licked you once in the old days, and I guess I could do it now, but I don’t want to.  Come and have a drink with old Andy.”

“Andy?  Andy the Spieler?  Andy Certain?”

“Dr. L. Andre Surtaine, at your service. Now, will you shake?”

Still surly, Mr. McQuiggan hung back.  “What about that roast?” he demanded.

“Wasn’t sure of you.  Twenty years is a long time.  But I knew if it was you you’d want to fight, and I knew if you didn’t want to fight it wasn’t you.  I’ll buy you one in honor of the best little city west of the Mississip, and the best bunch of sports that ever came out of it, the McQuiggans of St. Jo, Missouri.  Does that go?”