“No, I don’t think so. I ain’t dressed for dancin’.”
“Yuh might borrow Slim Hunter’s coat. He looks just like one of them there doctor’s charts, which shows yore insides, after yore kinda opened up that-a-way. That shirt sure does correspond to them colored heart, liver and lung things.”
Banty Harrison came shoving his way past, but stopped to shake hands with Harp.
“Let’s go over and dance, Harp,” he panted. “It’s too danged hot in here. I’m goin’ to git a string, if I can find one, and tie this imported necktie to the top button of my pants. Dang anybody that would sell a tie like this. Yuh got to be a civil engineer to even tie it. C’mon.”
“Won’t she stay down, Banty?” queried Harp.
“Stay ! Every time I start talkin’ and kinda wigglin’ my throat, the darned thing comes up and bumps my lower lip.”
Hank Stagg came past them and went to the bar. He was already half-drunk and talking loud. Ike Welden joined him at the bar, but Welden was still sober. Santel came in and walked past them, his eyes sweeping the smoke-filled room. Hank called to him, asking him to have a drink, but Santel either did not hear him or did not want to drink with him.
“There’ll be to pay before mornin’,” declared Banty. “Yuh can’t put a gang like that together, along with plenty of hooch, and not have trouble. Whisky and six-guns don’t mix. this necktie!”
“Why don’tcha pin it down to yore shirt?”
“Yeah—and have it pull my shirt off, eh? Harp, you ain’t got no idea of the in this necktie. What I need is a collar with a pistol-grip finish instead of this ed slick thing.”