This man, whose air of
proprietorship convinced Blake that he could be none other than P. Gibbs,
had first looked sneeringly at the ten cents, but had shown some small sign
of pity on hearing the ominous cough of the attenuated vagrant. He set
forth a bottle and glass.
"Help yerself," said P. Gibbs. While Blake was doing so, Mr. Gibbs went on:
"Bad cough o' yourn. Y' mightn't guess it, but that same cough runs in my
fam'ly. It took off a brother, but it skipped me."
Here was a bond of sympathy between the big, law-defying saloon-keeper and
the frail toper from the East. Busted Blake drained his glass and presently
coughed again. P. Gibbs again set forth the bottle, and this time he drank
with Blake. Before long, by dint of repeated fits of coughing on the part
of Blake, the sympathy of P. Gibbs was so worked upon that he invited the
three miners in the saloon to join him and the stranger.
Blake slept in a corner of the saloon that night. He left the next morning,
a curious expression of resolution on his face.
During the next three weeks he was now and then alluded to in P. Gibbs's
saloon as the "coughing stranger.
Pages:
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188