Merritt dexterously diverted his friend's choice, that hovered
over ham and eggs, to a puree of celery, a salmon cutlet, a partridge
pie and a desirable salad.
"On the day," said Greenbrier, grieved and thunderous, "when I can't
hold but one drink before eating when I meet a friend I ain't seen in
eight years at a 2 by 4 table in a thirty-cent town at 1 o'clock on the
third day of the week, I want nine broncos to kick me forty times over a
640-acre section of land. Get them statistics?"
"Right, old man," laughed Merritt. "Waiter, bring an absinthe frappe
and--what's yours, Greenbrier?"
"Whiskey straight," mourned Nye. "Out of the neck of a bottle you used
to take it, Longy--straight out of the neck of a bottle on a galloping
pony--Arizona redeye, not this ab--oh, what's the use? They're on you."
Merritt slipped the wine card under his glass.
"All right. I suppose you think I'm spoiled by the city. I'm as good a
Westerner as you are, Greenbrier; but, somehow, I can't make up my mind
to go back out there. New York is comfortable--comfortable. I make a
good living, and I live it. No more wet blankets and riding herd in
snowstorms, and bacon and cold coffee, and blowouts once in six months
for me.
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