I ain't no fighter, Steve. You know that. The feller that downed
Sandy was--a tenderfoot. Yep, a greenhorn."
"Ah-h-h," drawled Nash softly, "I thought so."
"You did?"
"Anyway, let's hear the story. Another drink--on me, Flanders."
"It was like this. Along about evening of yesterday Sandy was in here
with a couple of other boys. He was pretty well lighted--the glow was
circulatin' promiscuous, in fact--when in comes a feller about your
height, Steve, but lighter. Goodlookin', thin face, big dark eyes like a
girl. He carried the signs of a long ride on him. Well, sir, he walks up
to the bar and says: 'Can you make me a very sour lemonade, Mr.
Bartender?'
"I grabbed the edge of the bar and hung tight.
"'A which?' says I.
"'Lemonade, if you please.'
"I rolled an eye at Sandy, who was standin' there with his jaw falling,
and then I got busy with lemons and the squeezer, but pretty soon
Ferguson walks up to the stranger.
"'Are you English?' he asks.
"I knew by his tone what was comin', so I slid the gun I keep behind the
bar closer and got prepared for a lot of damaged crockery.
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