"Isn't this a free country, where a man may go home when he chooses ?" "It's a free country, and a man has a right to spend his evening in my place when he's invited," Miller asserted roughly.
"Yes; your invitation will hold until his month's pay is gone from his pocket," Dick flashed back.

"That's all you want.

Drake has sense enough to see that, and he's leaving you." "He isn't going home for three hours yet, or anywhere else!" snorted Miller, whose breath proclaimed the fact that he had been using some of his own goods.
Dick laughed contemptuously as he turned to Tom Drake with: "You see! That fellow thinks he can give you your orders.

That fellow begins to believe that he owns you already." "Who are you calling 'that feller' ?" demanded Miller, dropping a heavy hand on Dick's shoulder.
"I referred to you," replied Prescott, pushing the man's hand from his shoulder.
"If you get too funny with me I'll hit you a crack that will carry your head off with it!" snarled the saloon keeper.
"Pshaw!" Prescott answered cuttingly.

"You aren't big enough, or man enough, either!" "What's that ?" Miller aimed a vicious, open-hand blow at young Prescott's face.
It didn't land, but, instead, Dick's right hand went up smack! against the fellow's cheek.
"Hang your impudence!" roared Miller, angrily.