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Cullum, Ridgwell, [pseud.], 1867-1943

"The Forfeit"

"Guess we don't grow ice around these parts, 'cep'
when we don't need it, an' I don't guess the railroad's discovered they
hatched Orrville out yet. We got lager in soak, an' lager by the keg,
down in a cool celler. Ef these things ain't to your notion I don't
guess you need the lager I kep."
"We'll have the bottled stuff in soak. Long."
"Ther's jest one size. Ef that don't suit, guess you best duplicate."
There was no offense in Ju's manner. It was just his cold way of
placing facts before his customers, when they were strangers.
He uncorked the bottles and set them beside the long glasses, and
waited while Bud poured his out. Then he accepted the price and made
change. Jeff silently poured out his and raised it to his lips.
"How, Bud."
"How."
The two men drank and set down their half-emptied glasses.
The sharp ears of the saloon-keeper had caught the name "Bud," and he
now stood racking his fertile brains to place it. But the stranger's
identity entirely escaped him.
"Been times around here, ain't ther'?" Bud remarked casually.


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