“Wal, that’s a hoss of another colour,” admits Chub.
“Yas,” says Buckshot, “Cupid’s right. We certainly got to attend to this visitor that’s come to our enterprisin’ city, and give him a fair shake.”
“But,” puts in Sam, “we’re up a tree. Where’s his mawterial?”
“Mawterial,” I says, “–I don’t just savvy what he means by that. But, boys, whatever it is, we got t’ see that he gits it. Now, s’posin’ I go find him, and sorta feel ’round a little, and draw him out.”
They was agreed, and I split fer the rest’rant. Boston was there, all right, talkin’ to ole lady Arnaz (but keepin’ a’ eye peeled towards Carlota), and pickin’ the shucks offen a tamale. I sit down and ast fer flapjacks. And whilst I was waitin’ I sized him up.
Clost to, I liked his looks. And from the jump, I seen one thing–they wasn’t no showin’ off to him, and no extra dawg (’r he wouldn’t ’a’ come to a joint where meals is only two-bits). He was a book-writer, but when he talked he didn’t use no ten-dollar-a-dozen words. And, in place of seegars, he smoked cigareets–and rolled ’em hisself with one hand, by jingo!
Wal, we had a nice, long parley-voo, me gittin’ the hull sittywaytion as regards his book, and tellin’ him we’d shore lay ourselves out t’ help him–if we didn’t, it wouldn’t be white; him, settin’ down things ev’ry oncet in a while, ’r whittlin’ a stick with one of them self-cockin’ jackknives.
We chinned fer the best part of a’ hour. Then, he made me a proposition. This was it: “Mister Lloyd,” he says, “I’d like t’ have you with me all the time I’m down here,–that’ll be three weeks, anyhow. You could explain things, and–and be a kinda bodyguard.”
“Why, my friend,” I says, “you don’t need no bodyguard in Oklahomaw. But I’ll be glad t’ explain anythin’ I can.”
“Course, I want t’ pay you,” he goes on; “’cause I’d be takin’ you’ time––”