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 any good. Nature had made him so lean and mean, so long-necked and gobbler-eyed, that scraping his hide would only reveal his imperfections that much plainer to the eye. His black hair was tipped with gray.

The other was a pinkish-white man, his hair fair, his lazy eyes light. He looked like he might be an overbearing fellow, give him a chance, Dunham thought, one to make a pretext for a quarrel out of very little if he had the strength of numbers and size on his side.

These two appeared to be alone, their attention strictly on their affairs. As they drank their several rounds, deliberately, giving each drink time to soak up before putting another on top of it, they talked in close-mouthed way, never turning an eye, except casually, in Dunham's direction. His fame did not appear to move their curiosity. Old-timers on the trails, Dunham thought them to be.

Others were coming in; Mallon was up to the elbows in business, taking his drinks when invited in, which he generally was, with the systematic motion of a man pouring something into a jug. He didn't get a bit livelier for these frequent jolts of raw liquor, or a shade redder. He was as pale as a fish, with lean jaws and melancholy, reproachful dark eyes, which gave him the appearance of an ascetic rather than a repository for quarts of strong liquor every week of his life.

Dunham would have gone his way when this tide of activity began to set in against the bar, only that Mallon kept up an over-shoulder conversation with him as he ranged up and down the bar. His dexterity was admirable to watch; Dunham found diversion in it,