‘A great shorrow has come upon me,’ explained Bert. ‘You heard ’bout Bennie Leach, didn’t yuh, bartend’r? Ter’ble! The bes’ man in thish state died t’day, and I mourn him. Hish losh is more than I can bear.’
And Bert Roddy proceeded to cry openly and unafraid. Spike looked at him disgustedly, kicked him a few times, which seemed ineffectual, and then proceeded to have a little cry on his own hook.
‘Go home,’ advised the bartender.
‘Home won’t never be home without Bennie,’ wailed Bert.
‘We ought to do shomethin’,’ said Spike tearfully. ‘That sheriff won’t do nothin’.’
‘Tha’s a good idea,’ agreed Bert. ‘Le’s take the law in our own hands, Schpike. We owe it to poor ol’ Bennie.’
‘You fellers better rattle yore hocks home, before somebody finds yuh loose,’ advised the bartender.
‘That is alsho good advice,’ agreed Bert. He dug in his pocket and took out some money. ‘Gimme a quart, bartender. I’d rather drink alone out of a bottle than to make merry with a crowd at yore bar. Yore face would shour milk. Keep the change.’
‘Hey! You’re two-bits shy, feller.’
‘Hold yore b-b-breath till yuh get it, will yuh?’