The checkerboard feller was standing up when we opened the door. "Hello,
Petey!" says he, cool as a cucumber, and sticking out a foot and a half
of wrist with a hand at the end of it.

Now, it takes considerable to upset Peter Theodosius Brown. Up to
that time and hour I'd have bet on him against anything short of an
earthquake. But Booth Montague done it--knocked him plumb out of water.
Peter actually turned white.

"Great--" he began, and then stopped and swallered. "HANK!" he says, and
set down in a chair.

"The same," says Montague, waving the starboard extension of the
checkerboard. "Petey, it does me good to set my eyes on you. Especially
now, when you're the real thing."

Brown never answered for a minute. Then he canted over to port and
reached down into his pocket. "Well," says he, "how much?"

But Hank, or Booth, or Montague--whatever his name was--he waved his
flipper disdainful. "Nun-nun-nun-no, Petey, my son," he says, smiling.
"It ain't 'how much?' this time. When I heard how you'd rung the bell
the first shot out the box and was rolling in coin, I said to myself:
'Here's where the prod comes back to his own.' I've come to live with
you, Petey, and you pay the freight."

Peter jumped out of the chair. "LIVE with me!" he says. "You Friday
evening amateur night! It's back to 'Ten Nights in a Barroom' for
yours!" he says.