“Put some sody in ’em this time, Whisperin’, will yuh? You allus leaves out somethin’, and I’d rather have anythin’ left out rather than sody.”
“Mebbe you’d like to make’ em, eh?”
“No, I wouldn’t, Whisperin’. I’ll get yuh some wood, if yuh crave it real hard. But I’d shore like to know what’s to become of this here rancho, since Harmony died.”
“That makes seventy-eight times,” groaned Whisperin’.
“I never asked yuh, you bat-eared pelican! I said I’d like to know, thasall. You couldn’t tell me.”
Len smiled softly. He had known these two men for years, and they had always argued like this. Came sound of a squeaking boot, and Sailor Jones came out on the porch.
He stopped short, staring at Len. Sailor was a little, wizened person, with high cheek-bones, crooked nose, deep-set blue eyes and a wide, thin-lipped mouth. His slightly gray hair was thin, and stood up on his head like fox-tail tops.
He blinked rapidly, rubbed the palm of his right hand violently on his thigh, as he cleared his throat, which action caused his prominent Adam’s apple to jiggle nervously.
“By Gawd!” he said softly. “If it is, I’m glad, and if it ain’t, I swear that me and the gin bottle ain’t never goin’ to git together no more.”
“Yeah, it’s me, all right, Sailor,” said Len slowly.