“We obtained money under false pretenses, Ike,” says he. “We agreed to rob a bank and there wasn’t nobody to hold up.”
“He agreed to plant a couple of horses for us,” says I, “and he either has a danged poor idea of what a feller rides to a bank robbery or we picked the wrong steeds.”
“Prognostications don’t alleviate the crack in my head,” says Dirty. “’Pears to me that my brain is runnin’ out.”
“Cast aside all fear,” says I. “You never could hit that hard. I’ve got a splintered wish-bone and my stummick has been turned wrong side out. What will we do next, Dirty?”
“Get away from here,” says Dirty, which shows that his brains ain’t leaking to no great extent.
“How?” I asks. “Looks to me like this quiet little jail is about the only safe place for me and you.”
“Well, why in —— don’t somebody come along and chide us?” complains Dirty, nervous-like. “It ain’t like Piperock to do things like this, Ike. Why don’t they kill us and have it over with?”
“Want to die, feller?” I asks. “Pinin’ away for death, are yuh?”
“No, I ain’t, Ike, but if I’ve got to die—hurrah for ——! Who’s afraid of fire?”
“Shall we sneak back to the shack and get our disguises, Dirty?”