“Yeah, we’ll look,” nods Dirty.
“Cost two-bits per each,” informs Hassayampa. “Magpie says they’re worth it—and they are. My —, there ain’t no questions about it.”
“That’s a — of a idea!” snorts Dirty. “Two-bits to see a elephant. I’ll tell you what we will do, Hassayampa; we’ll pay the two-bits to see you try to take another bale away from Gunga Din.”
“You never will,” sighs Hassayampa. “I’m cured. Anyway, I’m about half out of hay. I’ve got a bill of seven dollars agin’ them critters right now. By golly, that tagger c’n go plumb to —. Meat costs money.”
We left Hassayampa talkin’ to himself and went back up town, where we leans on Buck’s bar.
We ain’t been there long when Mike Pelly, Ricky Henderson and “Old Testament” Tilton rides in from Paradise. Mike is the saloon-keeper and Ricky runs the barber shop. The third member of this here trio represents the other element of Paradise.
Testament looks a heap like some old buzzard that had been disappointed in love. He wears one of them beetle-backed coats, a pair of pants that sure follers the contour of his skinny legs and a pair of boots that sag a heap at the top and shows that Testament don’t noways pinch his feet.
Mike parts his hair on one side, slicks one side down until she almost reaches the bridge of his nose, where it retreats some sudden-like. He smells a heap of heel-yuh-tripe perfume.
Ricky is a barber. He looks, smells and acts like one. When he gets excited he applauds, like he was stroppin’ a razor. Testament used to think that he had snatched Ricky and Mike from the burnin’. When Testament first comes to that country he has an idea that there was a lot of brands to snatch from the burnin’; but he got scorched a few times and let things go as they lay.
Them three angles up to the bar, shakes hands with us, just like they cared to meet us, and asks us to drink. Testament has his usual lemonade and a wink, and then we discusses conditions.