It was a dar-r-r-rk, stormy night,
As the train rat-tuled on,
All the pass-un-n-n-gers had gone to bed,
Except one young man, with a babe on his ar-r-rm,
Who sat there with bow-w-w-w-ed down head.
The——
“Hark!” blurted Sleepy dramatically. “There came a scream of agony! The lights went out! From somewhere came the crashing report of a gun. Then everything was still. A man lighted a match and held it above his head, dimly illuminating the room. But it was enough. The singer was dead—shot through the vocal cords.”
“Didn’t yuh like the song?” asked Hashknife meekly.
“——, the song was all right; it’s the way it was bein’ abused that made me step in and stop it. Yore ears must shut up tight every time yuh try to sing, Hashknife. That must be it, ’cause you’d never do it if yuh knowed what it sounded like.”
“Uh-huh, that must be it,” agreed Hashknife sadly. “I wish that train would back up long enough for us to get our belts and holsters. This darned six-gun of mine is goin’ to give me stummick trouble, if I don’t find a new place to carry it. The barrel is too long for my pocket.”