“Back in time fer supper, hey, Kennedy,” he growled, none too cordially.  “Who’s yer frien’?”

“A feller whut’s goin’ ter enlist.  He’s all right, Jack,” the deputy hiccoughed thickly.  “Les’ liquor, an’ then we’ll eat.  I’m payin’ the bill—­so whut the hell is it ter yer?”

“Nuthin’ ‘tall; eny frien’ o’ yers gits ther best I hav’.  Corn liquor, I reckon?”

He set out a squat bottle on the bar, and thinking it best to humor the both of them I poured out a stiff drink, fully aware that Rale was observing my features closely.

“Seen yer afore sumwhar, ain’t I?”

“I reckon,” I replied indifferently, watching Tim fill his glass.  “I worked my way up on the boat; saw yer on board.”

“Sure; that’s it; ’tain’t in my line fer ter forgit a face.  Yer ain’t enlisted yit?”

“No; reckon I’ll wait till maunin’, an’ clean up a bit furst.  How ‘bout sum soap an’ water fore I eat? an’ yer cudn’t loan me a razor, cud ye?”

He rubbed his chin reflectively with stubby fingers.

“Wal’ I got plenty o’ water, an’ maybe cud scare up sum soap.  Tim yere he’s got a razor, an’, if he’s a frien’ o’ yers, I reckon he mought lend it ter yer—­thet’s sure sum hell ov a beard yer’ve got.”

The deputy gulped down his drink, and smacked his lips, clinging with one hand to the bar, regarding me lovingly.

“Sure; he’s friend’ o’ mine.  Shave him myself soon’s I git sober.  Stand most whisky all righ’, but damn if I kin this kind—­only hed three drinks, tha’s all—–­whut’s thet?  Yer can’t wait?  Oh, all righ’ then, take it yerself.  Mighty fin’ razor, ol’ man.”

Rale found me a tin basin, water, a bit of rag for a towel, and a small, cracked mirror, in which my reflection was scarcely recognizable.  He was a man of few words, contenting himself with uttering merely a dry comment on Kennedy, who had dropped back into a convenient chair, and buried his face on the table.

“Tim’s a damn good fellow, an’ I never saw him so blame drunk afore,” he said, regretfully.  “Know’d him et Saint Louee; used ter drop in ter my place.  He an’ Kirby hed a row, an’ I reckon thet’s whut started him drinkin’.”

“A row; a quarrel, you mean?” forgetting myself in surprise.  “Who’s Kirby?”

“Joe Kirby; yer sure must know him, if yer a river man.  Slim sorter feller, with a smooth face; slickest gambler ever wus, I reckon.”

“Why, of course,” getting control of myself once more.  “We picked him up, ’long with Tim, down river.  Hed two women with ’em, didn’t they? runaway niggers?”

Rale winked facetiously, evidently rather proud of the exploit as it had been related to him.

“Wal’, ther way I understan’, they wa’n’t both of ’em niggers; however, that was the story told on board.  This yere Joe Kirby is pretty damn slick, let me tell you.  One of ’em’s a white gurl, who just pretended she wus a nigger.  I reckon thet even Kirby didn’t catch on ter her game et furst; an’ when he did he wus too blame smart ter ever let her know.  She don’t think he knows yet, but she’s liable fer ter find out mighty soon.”