Ignoring the testy reply, the policeman resumed: “When yu’ left Barney Gallagher’s which trail d’yu’ come home by?—th’ long ’un, or th’ short ’un through my pasture?”
“Th’ short ’un,” said Tucker wonderingly. “W’y?”
“Anythin’ happen to yu’ on th’ trail?” inquired his interlocutor.
The old man hesitated a moment. “Ja! Did ’ave a bit of a shindig,” he admitted shamefacedly.
“Ja,” said the Sergeant. “I thought so; an’ now I’ll tell yu’ what happened. Yu’ was dronk an’ let yore lines catch under th’ end o’ th’ disselboom, an’ yore team up an’ run away on yu’. Managed to pull ’em up, somehow, I suppose. Providence always seems to hand out a special dispensation to fellers that’s full, else more’n likely it’s th’ hospital yu’d be in instead o’ that chair.”
“Well, I pulled die schelms, anyway,” said the other. “An’ I ’ad to go back abaht ’arf a mile fer a bag o’ chicken feed as fell aht.”
“Ja! ... an’ a bag o’ blasted nails yu’ had aboard fell aht wiv’ it,” mimicked Ellis, irritably. “An’ my hawss picked one of ’em up in his nigh-fore an’ he’s been out o’ business ever since.”
The old man, fumbling with trembling fingers about his waistcoat, produced a short day pipe and, filling it, proceeded to smoke.
“If yu’ don’t let up on th’ dop for a space,” resumed the policeman severely, “yu’ll be havin’ fancies again—bad ’uns, too.”
The abandoned Tucker cocked a boiled eye at his would-be mentor.