I’d just got inside Dutchy’s, and was a-standin’ behind Buckshot Milliken, watchin’ him bluff the station-agent with two little pair, when I heerd Hairoil a-talkin’ to hisself, kinda. “Dear me suz!” he says (he was peerin’ acrosst the street towards the deepot), “what blamed funny things I see when I ain’t got no gun!”
A-course, we all stampeded over and took a squint. “Wal, when did that blow in?” says Bill Rawson. And, “Say! ketch me whilst I faint!” goes on one of the Lazy X boys, making believe as if he was weak in the laigs. The rest of just haw-hawed.
A young feller we’d never seen afore was comin’ cater-corners from the station. He was a slim-Jim, sorta salla complected, jaw clean scraped, and he had on a pair of them tony pinchbug spectacles. He was rigged out fit t’ kill–grey store clothes, dicer same colour as the suit, sky-blue shirt, socks tatooed green, and gloves. He passed clost, not lookin’ our direction, and made fer the Arnaz rest’rant.
Just as he got right in front of it, he come short and begun readin’ the sign that’s over the door–
Meals 25c
Start in and It’s a Habit
You cain’t Quit.
Then we seen him grin like he was turrible tickled, and take out a piece of paper t’ set somethin’ down. Next, in he slides.
We all dropped back and lined up again.
“Not a sewin’-machine agent, ’r he’d ’a’ wore a duster,” says Hairoil.
“And a patent medicine man would ’a’ had on a stove-pipe,” adds Bergin.
“Maype he iss a preacher,” puts in Dutchy, lookin’ scairt as the dickens.