I jerked it out and kicked it clean acrosst the floor. Then I drug him out and started fer the bunk-house with him. Gosh! it was a job!
Wal, the pore cuss didn’t git another swalla of forty-rod that day; and by the next mornin’ he was calm and had a’ appetite. So three of us sergeant-at-arms happened over to see him. Bill Rawson was there a’ready, keepin’ him comp’ny. And first thing y’ know, I was handin’ that editor of ourn great big slathers of straight talk.
“I know what you done fer me, Cupid,” says Hank. “And I’m grateful,–yas, I am. But let me tell you that when I git started drinkin’, I cain’t stop–never do till I’m just wored out ’r stone broke. And I git mean, and on the fight, and don’t know what I’m doin’. But,” he con-tinues (his face was as long as you’ arm), “if you-all ’ll fergive me, and let this spree pass, why, I’ll go back t’ takin’ water at the railroad tank with the Sante Fee ingines.”
“Hank,” I says, “you needn’t t’ say nothin’ further. But pack no more loads, m’ son, pack no more loads. And try t’ git out another EyeOpener. Not only is this sheriff matter pressin’, but the lit’rary standin’ of Briggs City is at stake.”
“That’s dead right,” he says. “And I’ll git up a’ issue of the Opener pronto–only you boys ’ll have t’ help me out some on the news part. I don’t recollect much that’s been happenin’ lately.”
Wal, things looked cheerfuller. So, ’fore long, I was back at the deepot, settin’ on a truck and watchin’ the eatin’-house windas, and the boys–Bergin and all–was lined up ’longside Dutchy’s bar, celebratin’.
But our work was a long, l-o-n-g way from bein’ done. Hank kept sober just five hours. Then he got loose from Hairoil and made fer a thirst-parlour. And when Hairoil found him again, he was fuller’n a tick.
“I’m blue as all git out about what’s happened,” says Hairoil. “But I couldn’t help it; it was just rotten luck. And I hear that when the Tarantula come out yesterday it had a hull column about that Walker, callin’ him a brave ex-soldier and the next sheriff of Woodward County.”
“And just ten days ’fore ’lection!” chips in Bill Rawson. “Cupid, it’s root hawg ’r die!”
“That’s what it is,” I says. “Wal, I’ll go git after Hank again.”