"Some day, Bud, sure. I'll be waitin'! Meantime why not get some doctor-guy t' put ye face back in shape—gee, I hate t' see ye—you look like a butcher's shop! An' them split lips pains some, I guess!"
Here, while M'Ginnis choked in impotent rage, Soapy lit a fresh cigarette from the butt of the last and held out the packet.
"Try a coffin-nail, Bud? No? Well, I guess y' couldn't smoke good with a mouth on ye like that."
"Who did it, Bud?" questioned Spike eagerly. "Who was it?"
"Hush up, Kid, hush up!" said Soapy, viewing M'Ginnis's cuts and bruises with glistening eyes. "I guess that guy's layin' around somewheres waitin' f'r th' coroner—Bud wouldn't let him make such a holy mess of his face an' get away with it—not much! Bud's a killer, I know that—don't I, Bud?"
"You close up that dog's head o' yours, Soapy, or by—"
"'S all right, Bud, 's all right. Don't get peeved; I'll close up tighter 'n a clam, only—it's kinder tough about them teeth—"
"Are ye goin' t' cut it out or shall—"
"Aw, calm down, Bud, calm down! Take a drink; it'll do ye good." And filling a glass with rye whisky, Soapy set it before M'Ginnis, who cursed him, took it up, and turned to Spike.
"Fill it up, Kid," he commanded.