"Well," breathed Nash, "I'll be hanged."
"Sure you will," suggested Flanders, at once changing his frown for a
smile of somewhat professional good nature, as one who greeted an old
customer, "sure you will unless you come in an' have a drink on the
house. I want something myself to forget what I been doin'. I feel like
the dog-catcher."
Steve, deeply meditative, strode into the room.
"Partner," he said gravely to Flanders, "I've always prided myself on
having eyes a little better than the next one, but just now I guess I
must of been seein' double. Seemed to me that that was Sandy Ferguson
that you hot-footed out of that door--or has Sandy got a double?"
"Nope," said the bartender, wiping the last of the perspiration from his
forehead, "that's Sandy, all right."
"Then gimme a big drink. I need it."
The bottle spun expertly across the bar, and the glasses tinkled after.
"Funny about him, all right," nodded Flanders, "but then it's happened
the same way with others I could tell about. As long as he was winnin'
Sandy was the king of any roost.
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