Hank. 'Tain't what you'd call a perty country, but it's mighty satisfyin'. Too blame cold up here.
Lon. Why don't you move?
Hank. I'm agoin' to, but you see my brother had half interest in this here tavern and there was some litigation about it. Case's just finished. I been here three years, ever since he went. But I'm pullin' my stakes, you bet. I wouldn't be buried here! Would you?
Lon [dryly]. I'd rather not.
Hank. So she took me fer a friend that'd croaked, eh? That's cur'us.
Lon. Eh? What's that? Who?
Hank. Your wife.
Lon. Oh, yes. Well, he was a good ten years older. And dark-complected.
Hank. Thought you said he was light.
Lon. Mebbe I did. Well, he mought have been a trifle lighten'n you, but then, size him up by the average, he was dark. Let's fergit him. Bring us a bottle of your best—and see that the glass is clean.