Wick happens to glance down at Bosco and seems to run short on vocal power. He stares at Bosco for a moment, lets his glance wander to the ceiling, shuts his eyes tight and proceeds—
“As I said before, when a feller hankers for a hat on the back and the hasp of a—a——”
Then he glances down again.
“Judge,” says he, sliding off the bar, “you talk a while. I—I reckon my innards are ailing, I reckon.”
He weaves out of the door with his eyes shut.
Bosco looks around at that assemblage and then walks out the back door. Wild men has feelings the same as regular folks, I reckon, but to everybody outside of about six of us Bosco is the limit in hooch hallucinations.
“I’d—I’d set ’em up,” says Buck weak-like.
Six of us faced the barrier but the rest shook their heads. Dirty Shirt took his under advisement. He walked to the door, rung the bell three times, and joined us.
“It may get me e-ventually,” he announces, “but I’m still firm in my left hand, folks.”
All to once Wick stumbles back inside and flops in a chair.