Lovely bought the next one, the bartender stood a treat and then it was Wind River’s turn. By this time Horse-Collar was in the right mood to buy again, which caused the others to treat in turn. Eight drinks of Ranger whisky were guaranteed to either bring out all the latent forces within a human being, or to put him flat on his back.
Horse-Collar surveyed the world through rose-colored glasses; he essayed a song.
“Don’t shing,” advised Lovely.
“Tha’s the worsht of friends,” sighed Horse-Collar. “They try to run your business. What’ll you do if I try to shing?”
“I’m shorry, but if you shing I mus’ has’en your demise. Know what a demise is, Horsh-Collar? Tha’s the end of you.”
“Whish end?”
“Now, don’ drink no more, Horsh-Collar. Ain’t that verdict, Wind River? Horsh-Collar mus’ not drink no more. We’ve got p’tic’lar work to do. Win’ River’s goin’ help us, Horsh-Collar. We’re goin’ down and deman’ releash of Jimmy. Whoo-ee-e-e!”
Lovely cuffed his hat off his head and laughed deliriously.
“Thish is a lovely day,” he declared. “Win’ River Jim, yo’re triplets! H’rah, f’r your fambly. Let’s go up to the s’preme palace of vice and visit our old friend English Ed.”
“He—he’ll mashacree you,” choked Wind River.