And they were surely holding forth. Sleepy and Honey still had a little money, and the boys from the Flying H were spending their next month’s wages. William H. Cates, the detective, had fallen into their toils and was enjoying it.
Also, Mr. Cates was marveling at the amount of raw liquor they could consume without showing it. Mr. Cates was rather proud of his own ability, but he was beginning to have a hunch that before long he was going to see a lot more men than were actually in the room.
“Thish is lots of fun,” he announced.
“Par’ner, you ain’t started,” declared Lonnie. “You stay with us and we’ll show yuh bush’ls ’f di’monds. Oh, yessir, you’ll shee lots of ’m. We’ll show yuh levity, y’ betcha.”
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.”