Dirty and Big Foot are trying to sing something about a wild Irish rose and Buck Masterson is standing on the bar, trying to nominate a Populist for president. We all voted for Buck’s candidate, I remember that much, and then me and Dirty starts home, amid much applause.
Across the street the Cross J quartet is singing—
“Jee-e-e-roo-o-o-sa-a-a-lem, Jee-e-e-roo-o-o-sa-a-a-lem, lee-e-e-ft up your voice and see-e-e-ng.”
And Judge Steele is orating about—
“—and in the glorious land of our forefathers, where the—the—sun never sets and the—the——”
“Ike,” says Dirty, “a man is of few days and full of trouble, but right now I’m a mockin’-bird, with spreadin’ pinions and a dazzlin’ top-knot. I may die tomorrow, but right now I’m a feathered songster, light of heart and sound of limb. O death, where is thy stinger?”
“The devil has it on the grindstone, Dirty,” says I, “and by ten o’clock tomorrow she’ll be sharper than a serpent’s tooth.”
The next morning we sure slept peacefully, while Magpie goes uptown. He’s one of the leading lights, as usual. I reckon it’s about nine o’clock when me and Dirty gets something to eat. Dirty is a danged long ways from being a mocking-bird. We can’t eat. Maybe it’s from looking too much into the future, but I think it’s from looking too much into the bottom of a glass.
“If they sees us before we gets them broncs, Waldemar’s moving-pitcher is going to be a failure,” says I, as we puts on our own clothes, after soaking them beards loose.