did not matter; he was used to such scenes. It was the presence of the girl
which made him uncomfortable. He unbuttoned his coat that the warmth might
reach his chilled body, and frowned.

Four men sat around a small, dirty table; evidently the arrivals had
interrupted an exciting game of seven-up. A glance told Rowdy, even if his
nose had not, that the four round, ribbed bottles had not been nearly
emptied without effect.

"Have one on the house," the man nearest him cried, and shoved a bottle
toward him.

Involuntarily Rowdy reached for it. Now that he was inside, he realized all
at once how weary he was, and cold and hungry. Each abused muscle and nerve
seemed to have a distinct grievance against him. His fingers closed around
the bottle before he remembered and dropped it. He looked up, hoping Miss
Conroy had not observed the action; met her wide, questioning eyes, and the
blood flew guiltily to his cheeks.

"Thanks, boys--not any for me," he said, and apologized to Miss Conroy with
his eyes.

The man rose and confronted him unsteadily. "Dat's a hell off a way! You too
proud for drink weeth us? You drink, now! By Gar, I make you drink!"

Rowdy's eyelids drooped, which was a bad sign for those who knew him.
"You're forgetting there's a lady present," he reminded warningly.

The man turned a brief, contemptuous glance toward the stove. "You got the
damn' queer way to talk. I don't call no squaw no lady. You drink queeck,