For Hank, in his effort to breathe, was groaning and grunting and choking.
"Go easy, Ben; I think Hank's had about enough," interposed Jack, leaning over and trying to drag him off the prostrate down-easter.
"Sticks to Hank closer'n bacon-rind," observed Broncho, watching Jack's unavailing efforts.
"Help me get him off," panted the rover. "He'll choke the man in a minute."
"That's some obvious—that 'possum ain't doin' no roll-over an' playin' dead," drawled the cowboy composedly, as he lent Jack his aid.
"A man's finish is his own," put in the gambler, objecting to the interference of the two friends.
"You jest hold your hand, my lively one-horse-saloon bottle-washer, or I suspicion I'll have to tame you some," said the cowpuncher contemptuously.
Then, with a terrific heave together, Jack and Broncho pulled old Ben off Hank on to his feet.
Ben just stood there and looked at his victim, gasping on the deck.
"Mebbe that'll learn you some, mister; Ben Sluice don't allow no Yankee wolf to come yowlin' blood round him without puttin' up a breeze o' some sort"; and he turned on his heel, clambered down the ladder, and went aft to relieve the wheel.