"Thank you," rejoins the young fellow, lowering the newspaper to his
knee, and raising the rim of his hat, as little as possible; "I've just
had a drain. I hope you'll excuse me."

"Damned if we do! Not this time, stranger. The rule o' this tavern is,
that all in its bar takes a smile thegither--leastwise on first meeting.
So, say what's the name o' yer tipple."

"Oh! in that case I'm agreeable," assents the newspaper reader, laying
aside his reluctance, and along with it the paper--at the same time
rising to his feet. Then, stepping up to the bar, he adds, in a tone of
apparent frankness: "Phil Quantrell ain't the man to back out where
there's glasses going. But, gentlemen, as I'm the stranger in this
crowd, I hope you'll let me pay for the drinks."

The men thus addressed as "gentlemen" are seven or eight in number; not
one of whom, from outward seeming, could lay claim to the epithet. So
far as this goes, they are all of a sort with the brutal-looking bully
in the blanket-coat who commenced the conversation. Did Phil Quantrell
address them as "blackguards," he would be much nearer the mark.
Villainous scoundrels they appear, every one of them, though of
different degrees, judging by their countenances, and with like variety
in their costumes.

"No--no!" respond several, determined to show themselves gentlemen in
generosity. "No stranger can stand treat here. You must drink with us,
Mr Quantrell."

"This score's mine!" proclaims the first spokesman, in an authoritative
voice. "After that anybody as likes may stand treat. Come, Johnny!
trot out the stuff. Brandy smash for me."

The bar-keeper thus appealed to--as repulsive-looking as any of the
party upon whom he is called to wait--with that dexterity peculiar to
his craft, soon furnishes the counter with bottles and decanters
containing several sorts of liquors. After which he arranges a row of
tumblers alongside, corresponding to the number of those designing to
drink.

And soon they are all drinking; each the mixture most agreeable to his
palate.

It is a scene of every-day occurrence, every hour, almost every minute,
in a hotel bar-room of the Southern United States; the only peculiarity
in this case being, that the Natchitoches tavern in which it takes place
is very different from the ordinary village inn, or roadside hotel. It
stands upon the outskirts of the town, in a suburb known as the "Indian
quarter;" sometimes also called "Spanish