No booka lo go dana—
Happy he away yah!”
“What the blazes is it,” snarled Buzzsaw; “Chinese, Hottentot, or——”
“Injun,” said South-paw. “If that ain’t an Injun dirge I’ll eat my hat.”
“Sure it is,” agreed Warwhoop. “They’ve put a couple of Injuns into that room, a crazy old brave and a tall young buck.”
“They seem to be celebrating,” laughed Gentle Willie. “I should say they had been indulging in fire water.”
“Don’t talk of it,” entreated Warwhoop. “You make me thirsty, and I have to be careful to let the booze alone while the baseball season is in swing.”
Clinker’s besetting weakness was his taste for liquor. Started on a toot by a single drink, he invariably went the limit, which meant a protracted spree from which he always recovered in a shaky condition.
The doleful singing continuing, they yelled threats at the singer and threw things against the partition. The result was a sudden burst of fierce and startling whoops and yells, followed by a return thumping on that same partition.
“Wow!” gasped Warwhoop, his eyes bulging. “I think mebbe we’d better let that party alone. He may break through and attempt to scalp us if we continue to irritate him.”