but-'
'If you don't know what to say, maybe you'd better not say anything,' Mitch told him. 'Maybe if you just listen to me, you might learn something.'
'Maybe I will,' Zearsdale nodded. 'Why don't we see?'
'All right,' Mitch said. 'You asked me if I was a good bellboy. The truth is that I was lousy. I was like a lot of young men you see, wanting a lot but not willing to do much to get it. That's why I took up dice, I suppose. Because it looked like an easy way of making out big. I kept on playing with them, always thinking it would suddenly get easy. And by the time I found out that there was no easy way of being good at anything, it was too late to stop.'
But simply being good with the dice wasn't enough, of course. Not if you wanted to move into the upper brackets. You had to be well-informed, well-read, polished. You had to acquire an outlook on life, a certain way of dealing with people-an indefinable thing called class, which could never be imitated. So he had accomplished all that, and in accomplishing it, he had become far more than the very best man in the country with a pair of dice.
'The trouble with you, Zearsdale, is that you've forgotten how good a man can get through nothing but his own efforts. If he's good, as good as I am, then he can't be for real. If he beats you, he's got to be cheating. Well, I'm a ringer, yes, but I'm the straightest player you'll ever come up against. I'm no more a cheat than the baseball pitcher who throws nine strikes out of ten. Or the sharpshooter who keeps ringing up bullseyes. And I'm good at a lot of things besides dice. I'll take you on for a question-and-answers game on any subject you name. I'll take you on at poker-with you dealing all the cards. I'll take you on at golf-and let you pick my clubs. I'll take you on at anything from matches to marbles, Zearsdale, and I'll beat the ever-lovin' socks off of you, because it's been so damned long since you met a good man you're ready to lie down and holler foul before you ever begin!'
Red clapped her hands enthusiastically. Zearsdale sat scowling, squirming a little. He wasn't used to being talked to like that. He certainly didn't have to take it. He liked a man with pride, of course. God, how he loved a man with pride and the guts to stand up and speak his mind! But-
His broad mouth twisted into a reluctant grin. Then he threw back his head and laughed, and he laughed until the tears came to his eyes. At last, after a vigorous blowing of his nose, he got control of himself.
'Corley, I wouldn't have missed this for the world! I honestly wouldn't. I-' He suddenly became aware of the gun he was holding. 'My God, what am I doing with this? Let me give it back to you.'
'Keep it,' Mitch said. 'Red and I don't have any need for guns.'
'Neither do I,' Zearsdale said. 'I'll get rid of it for us.'
He excused himself and left the room. He returned without the gun, wheeling a small portable bar in front of him.
'I think we all need a drink,' he declared roundly. 'Or maybe two, who knows? What would you like, Miss, uh, Red?'
'Nothing,' said Red, looking very stern. 'Not until you say you're sorry.'
'Of course. I'm sorry.'
'With sugar on it,' Red insisted. 'That's what you have to say when you're really and truly sorry.'
Zearsdale squirmed, glanced appealingly at Mitch. Mitch told him he might as well give in and say it. Red would persist until he did. So the oil man said very rapidly that he was sorry with sugar on it.
'Well, all right, then,' Red said, and she gave him one of her very best smiles, a smile that reached right inside of him and patted him on the heart. 'I guess you're really not so bad when a person gets to know you.'
'Who is?' said Mitch.
'Hear, hear,' said Zearsdale.
And then they all had a drink together.
Or maybe two, who knows…?
