In a partitioned-off section of a saloon sat a man with a half dozen women, gleefully laughing, hovering about him.

The man had arrived at that stage of drunkenness where affection is felt for the universe.
"I'm good f'ler, girls," he said, convincingly.

"I'm damn good f'ler.
An'body treats me right, I allus trea's zem right! See ?" The women nodded their heads approvingly.

"To be sure," they cried out in hearty chorus.

"You're the kind of a man we like, Pete.