in a partitioned-off section of a saloon sat a man with a half dozen women, gleefully laughing, hovering about him. the man had arrived at that stage of drunkenness where affection is felt for the universe.
"i'm good f'ler, girls," he said, convincingly. "i'm damn good f'ler. an'body treats me right, i allus trea's zem right! see?"
the women nodded their heads approvingly. "to be sure," they cried out in hearty chorus. "you're the kind of a man we like, pete. you're outa sight! what yeh goin' to buy this time, dear?"
"an't'ing yehs wants, damn it," said the man in an abandonment of good will. his countenance shone with the true spirit of benevolence. he was in the proper mode of missionaries. he would have fraternized with obscure hottentots. and above all, he was overwhelmed in tenderness for his friends, who were all illustrious.
"an't'ing yehs wants, damn it," repeated he, waving his hands with beneficent recklessness. "i'm good f'ler, girls, an' if an'body treats me right i—here," called he through an open door to a waiter, "bring girls drinks, damn it. what 'ill yehs have, girls? an't'ing yehs wants, damn it!"
the waiter glanced in with the disgusted look of the man who serves intoxicants for the man who takes too much of them. he nodded his head shortly at the order from each individual, and went.
"damn it," said the man, "we're havin' heluva time. i like you girls! damn'd if i don't! yer right sort! see?"
he spoke at length and with feeling, concerning the excellencies of his assembled friends.
"don' try pull man's leg, but have a heluva time! das right! das way teh do! now, if i sawght yehs tryin' work me fer drinks, wouldn' buy damn t'ing! but yer right sort, damn it! yehs know how ter treat a f'ler, an' i stays by yehs 'til spen' las' cent! das right! i'm good f'ler an' i knows when an'body treats me right!"
between the times of the arrival and departure of the waiter, the man discoursed to the women on the tender regard he felt for all living things. he laid stress upon the purity of his motives in all dealings with men in the world and spoke of the fervor of his friendship for those who were amiable. tears welled slowly from his eyes. his voice quavered when he spoke to them.
once when the waiter was about to depart with an empty tray, the man drew a coin from his pocket and held it forth.
"here," said he, quite magnificently, "here's quar'."
the waiter kept his hands on his tray.
"i don' want yer money," he said.
the other put forth the coin with tearful insistence.
"here, damn it," cried he, "tak't! yer damn goo' f'ler an' i wan' yehs tak't!"
"come, come, now," said the waiter, with the sullen air of a man who is forced into giving advice. "put yer mon in yer pocket! yer loaded an' yehs on'y makes a damn fool of yerself."
as the latter passed out of the door the man turned pathetically to the women.
"he don' know i'm damn goo' f'ler," cried he, dismally.
"never you mind, pete, dear," said a woman of brilliance and audacity, laying her hand with great affection upon his arm. "never you mind, old boy! we'll stay by you, dear!"
"das ri'," cried the man, his face lighting up at the soothing tones of the woman's voice. "das ri', i'm damn goo' f'ler an' w'en anyone trea's me ri', i treats zem ri'! shee!"
"sure!" cried the women. "and we're not goin' back on you, old man."
the man turned appealing eyes to the woman of brilliance and audacity. he felt that if he could be convicted of a contemptible action he would die.
"shay, nell, damn it, i allus trea's yehs shquare, didn' i? i allus been goo' f'ler wi' yehs, ain't i, nell?"
"sure you have, pete," assented the woman. she delivered an oration to her companions. "yessir, that's a fact. pete's a square fellah, he is. he never goes back on a friend. he's the right kind an' we stay by him, don't we, girls?"
"sure," they exclaimed. looking lovingly at him they raised their glasses and drank his health.
"girlsh," said the man, beseechingly, "i allus trea's yehs ri', didn' i? i'm goo' f'ler, ain' i, girlsh?"
"sure," again they chorused.
"well," said he finally, "le's have nozzer drink, zen."
"that's right," hailed a woman, "that's right. yer no bloomin' jay! yer spends yer money like a man. dat's right."
the man pounded the table with his quivering fists.
"yessir," he cried, with deep earnestness, as if someone disputed him. "i'm damn goo' f'ler, an' w'en anyone trea's me ri', i allus trea's—le's have nozzer drink."
he began to beat the wood with his glass.
"shay," howled he, growing suddenly impatient. as the waiter did not then come, the man swelled with wrath.
"shay," howled he again.
the waiter appeared at the door.
"bringsh drinksh," said the man.
the waiter disappeared with the orders.
"zat f'ler damn fool," cried the man. "he insul' me! i'm ge'man! can' stan' be insul'! i'm goin' lickim when comes!"
"no, no," cried the women, crowding about and trying to subdue him. "he's all right! he didn't mean anything! let it go! he's a good fellah!"
"din' he insul' me?" asked the man earnestly.
"no," said they. "of course he didn't! he's all right!"
"sure he didn' insul' me?" demanded the man, with deep anxiety in his voice.
"no, no! we know him! he's a good fellah. he didn't mean anything."
"well, zen," said the man, resolutely, "i'm go' 'pol'gize!"
when the waiter came, the man struggled to the middle of the floor.
"girlsh shed you insul' me! i shay damn lie! i 'pol'gize!"
"all right," said the waiter.
the man sat down. he felt a sleepy but strong desire to straighten things out and have a perfect understanding with everybody.
"nell, i allus trea's yeh shquare, din' i? yeh likes me, don' yehs, nell? i'm goo' f'ler?"
"sure," said the woman of brilliance and audacity.
"yeh knows i'm stuck on yehs, don' yehs, nell?"
"sure," she repeated, carelessly.
overwhelmed by a spasm of drunken adoration, he drew two or three bills from his pocket, and, with the trembling fingers of an offering priest, laid them on the table before the woman.
"yehs knows, damn it, yehs kin have all got, 'cause i'm stuck on yehs, nell, damn't, i—i'm stuck on yehs, nell—buy drinksh—damn't—we're havin' heluva time—w'en anyone trea's me ri'—i—damn't, nell—we're havin' heluva—time."
shortly he went to sleep with his swollen face fallen forward on his chest.
the women drank and laughed, not heeding the slumbering man in the corner. finally he lurched forward and fell groaning to the floor.
the women screamed in disgust and drew back their skirts.
"come ahn," cried one, starting up angrily, "let's get out of here."
the woman of brilliance and audacity stayed behind, taking up the bills and stuffing them into a deep, irregularly-shaped pocket. a guttural snore from the recumbent man caused her to turn and look down at him.
she laughed. "what a damn fool," she said, and went.
the smoke from the lamps settled heavily down in the little compartment, obscuring the way out. the smell of oil, stifling in its intensity, pervaded the air. the wine from an overturned glass dripped softly down upon the blotches on the man's neck.
