Baldy Woods reached for the bottle, and got it. Whenever Baldy went foranything he usually—but this is not Baldy’s story. He poured out athird drink that was larger by a finger than the first and second. Baldy was inconsultation; and the consultee is worthy of his hire.
“I’d be king if I was you,” said Baldy, so positively thathis holster creaked and his spurs rattled.
Webb Yeager pushed back his flat-brimmed Stetson, and made further disorder inhis straw-coloured hair. The tonsorial recourse being without avail, hefollowed the liquid example of the more resourceful Baldy.
“If a man marries a queen, it oughtn’t to make him atwo-spot,” declared Webb, epitomising his grievances.
“Sure not,” said Baldy, sympathetic, still thirsty, and genuinelysolicitous concerning the relative value of the cards. “By rightsyou’re a king. If I was you, I’d call for a new deal. The cardshave been stacked on you—I’ll tell you what you are, WebbYeager.”
“What?” asked Webb, with a hopeful look in his pale-blue eyes.
“You’re a prince-consort.”
“Go easy,” said Webb. “I never blackguarded you none.”
“It’s a title,” explained Baldy, “up among thepicture-cards; but it don’t take no tricks. I’ll tell you, Webb.It’s a brand they’re got for certain animals in Europe. Say thatyou or me or one of them Dutch dukes marries in a royal family. Well, by and byour wife gets to be queen. Are we king? Not in a million years. At thecoronation ceremonies we march between little casino and the Ninth GrandCustodian of the Royal Hall Bedchamber. The only use we are is to appear inphotographs, and accept the responsibility for the heir-apparent. Thatain’t any square deal. Yes, sir, Webb, you’re a prince-consort;and if I was you, I’d start