"
The invitation was naturally accepted. The men ranged along the bar,
elbow to elbow; the bartenders served and, with a nod toward the man
who stood treat, poured their own red wine. Even Ortega, though he
made no attempt toward a civil response, drank. The more liquor poured
into a man's stomach here, the more money in Ortega's pocket and he was
avaricious. He'd drink in his own shop with his worst enemy provided
that enemy paid the score.
Kendric's friends were men who were always glad to drink and play a
game of cards, but tonight they were gladder for the chance to talk
with "Old Headlong." When he had bought the house a couple of rounds
of drinks, Kendric withdrew to a corner table with a dozen of his
old-time acquaintances and for upward of an hour they sat and found
much to talk of. He had his own experiences to recount and sketched
them swiftly, telling of a venture in a new silver mining country and a
certain profit made; of a "misunderstanding," as he mirthfully
explained it, now and then, with the children of the South; of horse
swapping and a taste of the pearl fisheries of La Paz; of no end of
adventures such as men of his class and nationality find every day in
troublous Mexico. Twisty Barlow, an old-time friend with whom once he
had gone adventuring in Peru, a man who had been deep sea sailor and
near pirate, real estate juggler, miner, trapper and mule skinner, sat
at his elbow, put many an incisive question, had many a yarn of his own
to spin.
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