Jim Compton’s moist quid, for which he had now substituted a cigarette borrowed from Matt Branson, splattered against the words “Free Admission.”
“I reckon that’s about right,” yawned Matt. “’Cause there ain’t goin’ to be no free admission. I got a notion to be doorkeeper an’ collect a black eye ur a punched nose from ever’ one ’at can’t give me the high sign.”
“Well,” snorted Hank Milleson, resuming the shuffling of the dog-eared cards. “All I got to say is: ‘Look out fur your change.’ Some of them guys may be shifty with their mitts. Take little Artie himself! When a kid can do a high-jump o’ nearly five feet he might be handy with his fists too.”
“I’ll jump him in the drink,” sneered Compton lazily, as he nodded toward the sleepy Green River flowing near by. “An’ I’ll take mama’s pet’s toys frum him while I’m doin’ it—don’t fergit it.”
“I won’t,” replied Hank significantly. “Saturday’s only day after to-morrow. They won’t be no time to fergit. We all heered what you said.”
“Mebbe you think I can’t!” retorted Compton as he shot a volume of cigarette smoke through his sun-blistered nose, and straightened himself.
“Sure you kin. You kin always tell what you’re a-going to do. Go on. Blow yourself up with brag.”
“Cheese it, kids. Cut it out! Don’t start nothin’,” shouted Mart Clare. “Come on, I’ve got a good hand.”
Jimmy glared at Hank but he seemed glad enough to drop the argument.
“If you think I’m braggin’, wait till Saturday,” was his only response.