Gregg did not frown as he drank, but the corners of his lips turned up a
trifle in a smile of fixed and acid pleasantry and his glance went from
face to face in the barroom, steadily, with a trifling pause at each pair
of eyes. Beginning with himself, he hated mankind in general; the burn of
the cheap whisky within served to set the color of that hatred in a fixed
dye. He did not lift his chaser, but his hand closed around it hard. If
some one had given him an excuse for a fist-fight or an outburst of cursing
it would have washed his mind as clean as a new slate, and five minutes
later he might have been with Betty Neal, riotously happy. Instead,
everyone overflowed with good nature, gossip, questions about his work, and
the danger in him crystallized. He registered cold reasons for his disgust.

Beginning in the first person, he loathed himself as a thick-headed ass for
talking to Betty as he had done; as well put a burr under one's saddle and
then feel surprise because the horse bucks. He passed on to the others with
equal precision. Captain Lorrimer was as dirty as a greaser; and like a
greaser, loose-lipped, unshaven. Chick Stewart was a born fool, and a fool
by self-culture, as his never changing grin amply proved. Lew Perkins sat
in the corner on a shaky old apple barrel and brushed back his long
mustaches to spit at the cuspidor--and miss it. If this were Vic Gregg's
saloon he would teach the old loafer more accuracy or break his neck.

"How are you, Gregg?" murmured some one behind him.

He turned and found Sheriff Pete Glass with his right hand already spread
on the bar while he ordered a drink for two. That was one of the sheriff's
idiosyncrasies; he never shook hands if he could avoid it, and Gregg hated
him senselessly, bitterly, for it. No doubt every one in the room noticed,
and they would tell afterwards how the sheriff had avoided shaking hands
with Vic Gregg. Cheap play for notoriety, thought Gregg; Glass was pushing