appreciation of the event, "that was done like a gentleman and a scholar!"
"I always did hate a fuss," said Bill, beginning to feel as if he had made a show of himself, and maybe gone a little too far.
MacKinnon was standing off a little way, looking at Bill with a gleeful grin on his broad red face. Bergen slapped Bill's back in his paternal fashion, and got hold of his hand, talking between pumps and thumps.
"Worthy six-hundredth citizen!" he said, heartily enough, although Bill felt there was something of patronage, even mockery, in his leering hard eyes and whiskery grin.
Charley Mallon was shaking his mixture with a two-arm movement, this side and that, a long loop down the center, jiggle by the right ear, jiggle by the left; his eye on Bill as if he worked to propitiate him and feared his efforts might fail. He took the copper shaker off the glass, spooned out a cherry to brighten it, and set it before Bill with a friendly nod.
"Try that, Mr. Dunham," he requested respectfully. "It's on the house. An-ny time you want a limonade, step in."
"The six-hundredth man," said Puckett, offering his hand with a sinuous, slip-along movement as if sneaking a card, his gambler's face unchanged by any gleam of friendship or sincerity. "It looks like it's going to be a lucky number for you, Dunham."
"I hope so," said Bill. "Mr. Mallon, will you hand this gun to that feller if he comes back?"
