“Didn’t have nun-nothing on that—that mum-mule,” grunts Wick, and then he weaves out of the door.
Wick has been drinking.
“What seems to be the trouble with you fellers?” asked the bartender. “You look like you’d been to battle and got run over by a cannon.”
We ignores the inquiry, and pretty soon Telescope says—
“Been anything startling going on here lately?”
“——!” snorts the bartender. “Startling! Nothing ever happens in Paradise.” And he goes on wiping glasses.
“That’s good,” says Muley soft-like. “I love a quiet village.”
We got up, one at a time, and wandered outside. I’m the last one out. There ain’t nothing to do but walk back. We might chip in and hire a rig at the livery stable, but under the circumstances—well, we don’t feel like riding so close together, and rigs cost money.
I seen Muley setting on the sidewalk, pulling off his boots, and over on the watering-trough, one on each end, sets Telescope and Chuck like a couple of snow-birds, soaking their sore feet. Muley joins them, and then Henry Peck goes over and immerses his corns. We ain’t been there long when here comes Doughgod Smith, galloping up the street.
“If he’s got any more dirty work to have done, he can do it himself,” proclaims Chuck. “I’m through deceiving women.”