The first man to greet him was his old acquaintance Slum Ranks. The
little man looked up at him in a speculative manner, slanting his eyes
at him in a way he remembered so well. There was no change in the
rascal's appearance. In fact, he was wearing the same clothes Tresler
had first seen him in. They were no cleaner and no dirtier. The man
seemed to have utterly stagnated since their first meeting, just as
everything else in the saloon seemed to have stagnated. There were the
same men there--one or two more besides--the same reeking atmosphere,
the same dingy hue over the whole interior. Nothing seemed changed.

Slum's greeting was characteristic. "Wal, blind-hulks has passed--eh?
I figgered you was comin' out on top. Guess the government'll treat
you han'some."

The butcher guffawed from his place at the bar. Tresler saw that he
was still standing with his back to it; his hands were still gripping
the moulded edge, as though he had never changed his position since
the first time he had seen him. Shaky, the carpenter, looked up from
the little side table at which he was playing "solitaire" with a
greasy pack of cards; his face still wore the puzzled look with which
he had been contemplating the maze of spots and pictures a moment
before. Those others who were new to him turned on him curiously as
they heard Slum's greeting, and Carney paused in the act of wiping a
glass, an occupation which never failed him, however bad trade might
be.

Tresler felt that something was due to those who could display so
much interest in his return, so he walked to the bar and called for
drinks. Then he turned to Slum.

"Well," he said, "I'm going to take up my abode here for a week or
two."

"I'm real glad," said Ranks, his little eyes lighting up at the
prospect. He remembered how profitable this man had proved before.
"The missis'll be glad, too," he added. "I 'lows she's a far-seein'
wummin. We kep a best room fer such folk as you, now. A bran' noo iron
bed, wi' green an' red stripes, an' a washbowl goin' with it. Say,
it's a real dandy layout, an' on'y three dollars a week wi'out board.
Guess I'll git right over an' tell her to fix--eh?"

Tresler protested and laid a detaining hand on his arm. "Don't bother.
Carney, here, is going to fix me up; aren't you, Carney?"

"That's how," replied the saloon-keeper, with a triumphant grin at the
plausible Slum.

"Wal, now. You plumb rattle me. To think o' your goin' over from a pal