“Railami,” states the judge, without opening his eyes.
“Z-z-z-zunkuff,” says I.
“Uf-uf-uf-fuf,” says Buck.
It sure was an intelligible conversation. It was just about sensible enough for uh gathering like that and we all enjoyed it. Sudden like the noise starts percolating down the street again, and I starts for the door. I said I “started,” and that’s as far as I got. Pete Gonyer’s pet coyote pup must uh wanted uh railami, too, and it wasn’t below its dignity to come right into uh saloon to get it either.
In they comes, crowding each other for first place, and starts making a three-ring circus out uh Buck’s place. I’d tell uh man that there was something going on in there. That stilt-legged, overgrown fool-hen sure can cut circles, and that pup ain’t no slouch either. All outdoors seems to beckon that bird, but he don’t sabe mirrors. He cuts his last lap about two feet in the lead of that pup, hops high, wide and handsome to the top of the bar and meets itself in Buck’s bar-mirror.
Bounce? Say, that bird simply turns over in the air and comes back like uh rubber ball. The coyote is yelping its fool head off, trying to climb the bar, when that mass uh feathers and legs hits him dead center on the rebound.
Scenery Sims is just staggering in the door when that pup opines he can hear his maw calling him, and he tangles with poor little Scenery on his way out. Scenery loses his feet, so, as long as he ain’t got no visible means of support, he sets down on the back of his neck, and that demented thing that Magpie bought meets its original owner right in the doorway and they goes into the street together.
“Six-te-e-e-e-en!” shrieks Scenery, clawing at his head, where it had banged against uh chair-leg.
“Ninety-one,” croaks the judge, clawing at the bar-rail across his lap.
“Pass,” declared Buck, vacant like, and just then “Doughgod” Smith weaves in.