"Well," Pat said, "there's a girl here in the dooryard who's spittin' out gasoline all over everything."
"How's that!" the voice said. "This girl, you say, she's spittin' out gas? Do you mean to say...."
"With the aid of the pumps, to be sure," Pat explained fairly. "And, if you'd believe it, it's butterflies she's wearin' in the place of her clothes. They're all hollerin' and yellin' and carryin' on something frightful. It's probably the end of the world all right."
"Patrick O'Brien!" the voice said with sudden sternness. "Shame on you! It's a fanciful lad you've always been, and I've been of a mind to forgive you it for bein' a comfort to yer gouty ma, but when you start callin' up a poor tired cop like me and runnin' off at the mouth about gassy girls and yellin' butterflies.... Shame is all I've got to say to you."
"I didn't even mention the water hose," Pat said stubbornly. "It's the end of the world, I'm confident."
"It's the bottom of the bottle!" the voice snapped. "My advice to you is to soak yer head in cold water and say a prayer that the devil doesn't take yer soul. Goodbye to you."
The telephone clicked loudly in Pat O'Brien's ear.
"Faith," Pat said sadly. "And that's the last time I'll hold conversation with the law." He slumped back on his stool and turned his eyes to the company rules which were pasted on the wall; there was no mention anywhere as to proper procedures in the event of the world's end.
Outside, however, the struggle at the pumps came to an abrupt end as Cecil won possession of the revolver. He turned and aimed it at Marc. Promptly the splatter of gasoline stopped, as did that of the water.