“Slim” Hawkins woke me up. Slim would make a good running-mate for Magpie. He’s built in the same proportions. He’s had a few drinks, and is as serious as a owl.
“Ike,” says he, “take a look at my eyes and see if they’re all right.”
“Little off color but pointing straight, Slim. What’s wrong?”
“Somebody drops a paper at the ranch today, and when I tries to peruse same I finds that I’m left-handed and cross-eyed. I’ve suffered a heap, Ike, and while I hopes for the best I fears the worst. I’d hate to go around looking at things backwards thataway. Might as well learn to read Chinese. Where’s the educated party what operates this here newspaper?”
“He’s—” I begins, but an apparition which I deciphers to be Dirty Shirt, comes in the door.
He seems to have met disaster. His hair has been pawed down over a pair of black eyes, and over his head and under one arm hangs what is left of a framed map of Montana, which adorned Magpie’s office.
He feels painfully in his pockets, takes out three silver dollars, and lays ’em on the table.
“Dirty Shirt Jones—three months,” he states, slow and sad-like.
“Your subscription expired?” I asks, and he nods.
“Uh-huh. I reckon. Everything else has.”