"Let'm in. S'all right, Wes. Anyone c'n make mishtake."
"He's sober."
"Gettum drink," said Don. "Gettum drink—gettum drunk."
"Look, fellows, I'm sorry about that fool mistake. I've been working on the judge's ticker. I've fixed it."
"Fitched it?" asked Walt, opening his eyes wide.
"Close 'em—Y'll bleed t' death," gurgled Don.
Farrell dangled the judge's watch before them. It was perfect. It ticked, it ran, and though they couldn't possibly have seen the hands from a distance of more than nine inches, it was keeping perfect time.
Don shook his head, moaned at the results of the shaking, put both hands on his head to hold it down, and looked again. "How'ja do it?"
"Made a recording of the transmitted signal. Fixed the power-supply filters first. Then took the recording—"
"On whut?" spluttered Walt.