“Waldemar?” says Dirty. “My gosh, Ike, you are getting temperamental, like a regular primmydonner. His pitcher a failure? What’s his danged pitcher beside my breath of life? If them or’nary saddle-slickers see us before we reach them broncs—Waldemar gets a regular necktie pitcher. They’ll hang us to that tree right near Sam Holt’s porch, Ike.”
“That’s too bad, Dirty. Where’ll we go if we get away with it?”
“There yuh are!” wails Dirty, flopping his arms. “No place to go.”
“Well, we’ve got to go, anyway; so it might as well be now.”
We went out of there and sneaked up on the town of Piperock, like it was a wild thing. Maybe that statement ain’t far wrong. We crawls in behind Buck’s place, and gets behind a pile of cord-wood. Me and Dirty has both got watches. Mine says ten minutes to ten, and Dirty’s says fifteen minutes after ten.
“Mine’s right,” says Dirty, positive-like. “That watch ain’t lost a second in two years. I can correct the sun with that watch, yuh betcha. We’re late!”
“Yuh can’t beat a Swiss movement,” says I, “and that’s the kind mine is. It is now ten minutes of ten.”
“You’re crazy, Ike. Lemme tell yuh something about this—huh—listen to your watch and see if she’s runnin’.”
“It ain’t,” says I, after listening. “I forgot to wind it last night.”
“Me, too,” says Dirty. “My ——, we’re in an awful fix.”