Len walked back among the tables, where he talked to “Handsome” Harry Clark, who owned the Pinnacle. Harry was not handsome by any known standard of beauty, being a hard-faced, sandy-haired individual, with a crooked nose and one sagging eyebrow, caused by stopping a beer bottle in full flight.
“I don’ like ’m,” declared Lonnie owlishly. “Heza disgrash to—to anythin’ what’ver.”
“My sen’ments to a i-ota,” said Nebrasky. “But what can yuh do, Lonnie? Yo’re speakin’ of our sher’f, ain’tcha?”
“O-o-o-oh, u-nan-i-mushly!”
“Don’t be foolish,” advised Dan, who was half sober yet. “He’s the sheriff, no matter if he should have been drowned in infancy.”
“H’lo, Misser Cold-Feet,” grinned Lonnie. “Dan’s slowin’ up on us, Nebrasky.”
“Pos’tively,” nodded Nebrasky. “Old boy’s showin’ age.”
“Aw, yo’re crazy,” flared Dan. “But what can yuh do?”
“Flip ’m,” said Lonnie gleefully.
The gentle art of flipping a man consisted of two men getting one on each side of the one to be flipped, grasping him by arms and legs, and turning him completely over. It is a queer sensation, but harmless, if done right. Kelsey was inches taller than either Nebrasky or Lonnie.