Pickle m’ bones in alcoho-o-o-ol.
Put a bottle of boo-o-o-oze at m’ head and feet
And then I kno-o-ow I’ll surely kee-e-ep.”
He turned and looked at Sam Leach, who was leaning on the bar, looking solemnly at a glass of liquor. The poker game had just broken up, leaving Silent Slade winner. And Silent was just intoxicated enough to crow over his poker-playing ability.
“Aw, you were just kinda lucky,” observed Leach.
“Tha’sso?” Silent laughed. “Lucky, eh? Any time you whippoorwills from Silverton mingle cards with a Marlinite—look out. They tell me that yo’re backin’ Hank Stagg for sheriff.”
“Well, what if I am?”
“Are yuh tryin’ to be funny—or don’tcha know any better?”
“What’s the matter with Hank Stagg?”
“What?” Silent stared at Leach in amazement. “My , yuh don’t expect me to stand here and tell yuh everythin’ that’s the matter with him, do yuh? I’m limited to just so many words, and they ain’t enough to tell yuh more than half what’s wrong with Hank Stagg.”