“Ha!” he muttered, “it is Ulfius and Brastias and Sir Bedivere.”
To this no response was made, except that the Major raised his hand and pointed to the bottle of “Dougherty” reposing on the second shelf beside the box of “scrap” and the proprietor's pistol-belt. The bartender hurried forward, took down the bottle, placed three little glasses on the bar and began to fill them. When he came to the third glass, he paused and set down the bottle. A puzzled expression gathered on his face. He thrust his forefinger into his mouth and began to lisp:
“Be there two or be there three
In our king's companee?”
The Major turned just in time to catch a glimpse of the Governor as he vanished in a telegraph office next door; then he swung around toward the barkeeper with the dramatic abandon of a professional at a benefit.
“Pour on, good seneschal,” he cried; “it is the man who would be married. He hastens with glad tidings to the well beloved. He will return.”
