By this time, I was so all-fired et up with curiosity t’ git a look at Hank that I couldn’t stand it no more. So I got a move on.
Hank is a turrible tall feller, and thin as a ramrod. He’s got hair you could flag a train with, and a face as speckled as a turkey aig. And when I come on to him that day, here he was, stretched out on the floor of Dutchy’s back room, mouth wide open, and snorin’ like a rip-saw.
I give his shoulder a jerk. “Here, Hank,” I says, “wake up and pay fer you’ keep. What’s got into you, anyhow. My goodness me!”
He opened his eyes–slow. Next, he sit up, and fixed a’ awful ugly look on me. “Wa-a-al?” he says.
“My friend,” I begun, “Briggs City likes you, and in the present case it’s a-tryin’ t’ make ’lowances, and not chalk nothin’ agin y’, but––”
“Blankety blank Briggs City!” growls Hank. “Ish had me shober and ish had me drunk, and neither way don’t shoot.”
“Now, ole man, I reckon you’re wrong,” I says. “But never mind, anyhow. Just try t’ realise that they ’s a ’lection comin’, and that you got t’ help.”
“Walkersh a friend of mine,” says Hank, and laid down again.
Wal, I didn’t want t’ be there all day. I wanted t’ have some time to myself, y’ savvy, so ’s I could keep track of Mace. So I grabbed him again.
This whack, he got up, straddlin’ his feet out like a mad tarantula, and kinda clawin’ the air. They wasn’t no gun visible on him, but he was loaded, all right. Had a revolver stuck under his belt in front, so ’s the bottom of his vest hid it.