“The Last Warnin’,” corrected Oyster seriously, not knowing the meaning of sacrilege. The Last Warnin’ was an ancient sway-backed white horse, which the minister drove to an old wobble-wheeled buggy. He had a mean eye and a propensity for digging his old hammer-shaped head into the restaurant garbage cans.
“It ain’t funny,” said the sheriff. “There ain’t nothin’ funny about tin-cannin’ a horse. Louie Sing’s big copper slop-can is missin’, and Louie swears that he’s goin’ to sue the preacher. I reckon it’s up to you boys to pay the preacher for his horse and Louie Sing for his copper can. The preacher says that fifty is about right for the horse, and Louie swears that he can’t replace the can for less than ten.”
“Well,” sighed Johnny, “all I can say is that you and the preacher and the Chink are plumb loco, if you think we’re goin’ to pay sixty dollars for a—for somethin’ we never done.”
“Where’d we get sixty dollars—even if we was guilty?” wondered Oyster.
“Yuh might make it in Sunday-school,” suggested the bartender.
“In Sunday-school? What do yuh mean?”
“Well,” grinned Doc, “I hear that one of yuh put a four-bit piece in the collection plate and took out ninety-five cents in change.”
Whether or not there was any truth in the statement, Johnny Grant took sudden exceptions to it and flung himself across the bar, pawing at the bartender, whose shoulders collided with the stacked glassware on the back bar, as he tried to escape the clawing hands.
“Stop that!” yelled the sheriff.
He rushed at Johnny, trying to save the worthy bartender from assault, but one of his big boots became entangled with the feet of Oyster Shell, and he sprawled on his face, narrowly missing the bar-rail, while into him fell Eskimo Olson, backward, of course, his spurs catching in the sheriff’s vest and shirt and almost disrobing him.