‘And not a gun in the crowd,’ said Napoleon, noting the empty holsters. ‘O-o-o-oh, I’m go-in’ fer, fer awa-a-ay, where the swee-e-e-et swy-rin-ga bloo-oo-oms.’
‘What’s the idea of the boiled clothes, Nap?’ asked Spike.
‘Celebratin’ m’ releash from bondage, Spike. I’m through cookin’.’
‘No-o-o-o!’
‘Yessir. Been rasslin’ pots for the 6X6 for over twenty years, and it’s time I retired.’
Jack Fairweather, manager of the Oasis, came in beside Dave Morgan, nodding to each of the boys. Fairweather was a small man, about fifty years old, who had been long in the employ of Peter Morgan.
‘I’ve been tryin’ to get some dope on this situation,’ he told Dave. ‘Nobody seems to know just what is to be done. As far as I can find out, Peter left no will. He never had any use for a lawyer, and they tell me at the bank that there is no will, as far as they know. What’s to be done?’
‘I dunno,’ growled Dave. ‘What’s usually done in a case of this kind?’
‘Well, I suppose the property belongs to his nearest relative. You ought to know who that would be, Dave.’
‘He didn’t have no real close relatives, Jack. His mother and father are both dead, and he was the only kid they had. There was just two boys in the family, my father and Pete’s father. They’re both dead.’