Supper time came, but none of them was hungry. Darkness came down upon Pinnacle City, and still those six men leaned on the bar, their toasts becoming more and more elaborate. Then Lonnie leaned his forehead against the bar and wept bitterly.
“Thish is all there ish,” he announced. “Nothin’ t’ do. Spen’ all day gettin’ drunk, and there’s nothin’ t’ do but go home.”
“O-o-o-oh, my!” wailed Nebrasky. “Tha’s a fac’. The jigger that wrote ‘Home Sweet Home’ must ’a’ never got out. Wha’s to be done, I’d crave to get an answer? No entertainment? Can’t you think of anythin’, Misser Detective?”
Not so Cates. He clung to the bar with both hands.
“Let’s all go out to the ranch,” suggested Nebrasky.
“Wha’ for?” queried Honey. “Uncle Hozie’d hop our necks.”
“Le’s go for ride,” choked Cates. “Need—uk—air.”
“That,” said Sleepy owlishly, “is a shuggestion.”
“I know!” exploded Lonnie. “C’mere.”
They followed him outside, much to the relief of the bartender, and Lonnie unfolded his scheme. There were many drawbacks, but each and every one was overcome.