"Ye'll no deny ye were drunk, will ye?"
"On one drink?" snorted Bud.
"It must ha' been a lar-r-ge one, lad." MacPherson shook his gray head wonderingly. "Mebbe ye were usin' a washtub, eh?"
Bud shook his head and spat dryly. "My tongue is plum corroded, Mac. What did the inspector say?"
MacPherson shook his head slowly. "What could he say, lad? Ye have disgraced the for-r-ce; so he says. Don't ye know that the Royal Northwest Mounted——?"
"Aw shut up!" wailed Bud. "What don't I know about rules and regulations? Ain't I had 'em fired at my head ever since I dressed myself up like a Royal chinook salmon and swore to never pull a gun except in self defense? I didn't ask yuh for a ruling, you long-faced old leather-knees—I asked yuh what the inspector said."
"I'll not repeat it," declared MacPherson. "He sent McKay out on your detail and told me to sober ye up long enough for-r-r ye to answer a few questions. Dr. Clarey was the one that found ye—him and Joe Burgoyne."
"Yeah?" Bud grimaced and scratched his touseled hair nervously. "Clarey, eh? What was he doin' up there?"
"A man got half killed in a brawl, so he says. Burgoyne came after Dr. Clarey, and they found ye maudling drunk, and with ye was the little Marie, and she was——"
"Aw, shut up," snorted Bud, as he got to his feet. "I'm goin' in and have it over with. If Joe Burgoyne sticks a knife into me I hope it'll be in the stummick; I've no use for that part of me."