‘I’m goin’ awa-a-ay, fer, fer awa-a-a-ay,’ he sang mournfully. ‘Where the swee-e-e-et swy-ring-ga bloo-o-oms.’
‘You thinkin’ of takin’ a long trip?’ asked the bartender.
Nap cuffed his derby over one eye and considered the bartender solemnly.
‘Feller, when Napoleon Bonaparte Briggs dudes up thisaway, he’s halfway there.’
‘Ocean voyage, Nap?’
‘Not unless there’s a cloudburst between here and Cañonville. I aims to ride a fo’-legged hawse. Gimme another scoop of that liquor, which tempers the wind to the shorn lamb, and charge it to the house.’
‘Can’t do that, Nap. Jack says to make everythin’ cash until he finds out what’s to become of this place.’
‘Become of it?’
‘Yeah, you know, since Peter Morgan died.’
‘Oh, yeah,’ sadly.