And Ju promptly seized the opportunity.
"Times? Sure. Say, I guess you don't belong around. Jest passin'
thro'?"
Bud nodded. Jeff had moved off toward the window, where he stood
gazing out. The saloon-keeper's gaze followed him.
"Why, yes. We're passin' through," returned Bud, without hesitation.
"You see, we belong down south in the 'T.T.' an' 'O----' country."
"That so?" Ju reached a box of cigars and thrust them at the new
customer. "Smoke?" he enquired. His generosity was by no means
uncalculated.
Bud helped himself, and in response to Ju's "Your friend?" he called
across to Jeff at the window. But Jeff shook his head, and the
saloon-keeper was given an opportunity of studying his set features,
and the premature lines he saw graven upon them. He withdrew the box
and turned his attention to the more amenable Bud.
"It's a swell country down your ways," he observed cordially. Then he
added, "You ain't been cussed with a gang o' toughs raidin' stock,
neither, same as we have fer the last fi' years.
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