“Fightin’ don’t come under the headin’ of work––proper,” he said. “Guess I’m in.”
Bill turned on Sandy.
“You ain’t got the modest beauty o’ the vi’let,” he said, with saturnine levity. “How you feelin’?”
“Sure good,” exclaimed the widower. “But I’d feel better lettin’ air into the carkis of James.”
“Good,” muttered Bill. “An’ you, Toby?” he went on, turning on the “remittance” man. “You’re a heap fat, an’ need somethin’ to get it down. How you fancy things?”
“I’d as lief scrap ’side these scalliwags as ag’in ’em,” he replied, indicating his companions with an amiable grin.
Bill nodded.
“This yere Trust is a proper an’ well-found enterprise,” he said gravely. “As fer Minky, I guess we can count him in most anything that ain’t dishonest. So––wal, this is jest precautions. Ther’s nuthin’ doin’ yet. But you see,” he added, with a shadowy grin, “life’s mostly chock-full of fancy things we don’t figger on, an’ anyway I can’t set around easy when folks gets gay. I’ll be back to hum day after to-morrer, or the next day, an’, meanwhiles, you’ll see things are right with Zip. An’ don’t kep far away from Minky’s store when strangers is around. Minky’s a good friend o’ mine, an’ a good friend to most o’ you, so––well, guns is good med’cine ef folks git gay, an’ are yearnin’ to handle dust what ain’t theirs.”
“Them strangers?” suggested Sandy. “Is––?”
Bill shrugged.