302
TEN NIGHTS IN A BAR-ROOM.
me, with an indifferent manner, to write down my name.
"I'll take a pen, if you please."
"Oh, yes!"
And he hunted about again in the desk, from which, after a while, he brought forth the blackened stump of a quill, and pushed it toward me across the counter.
"Ink," said I—fixing my eyes upon him with a look of displeasure.
"I don't believe there is any," he muttered. "Frank," and he called the landlord's son, going to the door behind the bar as he did so.
"What d'ye want?" a rough, ill-natured voice answered.
"Where's the ink?"
"Don't know any thing about it."
"You had it last. What did you do with it?"
"Nothing!" was growled back.
"Well, I wish you'd find it."
"Find it yourself, and———" I cannot repeat the profane language he used.
