"'Which I'm shore,' says the Bug, 'he'd be gladly willin' to assist; an' you hear me he's got a tongue of fire! Some of you-all sports must have crossed up with him––Jedge Beebe of Phoenix?'
"'Jedge Beebe?' interjecks Monte, who's given a hostler his proxy to take out the stage because of thar bein' onlimited licker; 'me an' the Jedge stands drinkin' together for hours the last time he's in Tucson. But you're plumb wrong, Bug, about him bein' eloquent.'
"'Wrong?' the Bug repeats, mighty indignant.
"'Of course,' says Monte, rememberin' how easy heated the Bug is, an' that he looks on six-shooters as argyooments, 'I don't mean he can't talk none; only he ain't what the Doc yere calls no Demosthenes.'
"'Did you ever hear the Jedge talk?' demands the Bug.
"'Which I shore does,' insists Monte; 'I listens to him for two hours that time in Tucson. It's when they opens the Broadway Dance Hall.'
"'Whatever is his subject?' asks the Bug, layin' for to ketch Monte; 'what's the Jedge talkin' about?'
"'I don't know,' says Monte, wropped in his usual mantle of whiskey-soaked innocence; 'he didn't say.'
"The Bug's eyes comes together in a angry focus; he thinks he's bein' made game of.