“Where’s yore public spirit?” asks Magpie.
“Thassall right,” complains Wick. “I’ve got more public spirit than most folks, I reckon; but a thousand dollars is a thousand dollars. If Paradise wants to pay me more’n I paid—they git ’em, by gosh!”
“You’d make a fine president for the Chamber of Commerce,” says Magpie.
“All right,” says Wick. “If you can think of anythin’ else that’s funny, I’ll listen.”
“Yore livestock are eatin’ up dollars,” says I.
“Yeah, and that’s another thing,” wails Wick, pawin’ at Magpie’s sleeve. “Who’s goin’ to pay their board?”
“Gunga Din eats a bale of hay every fifteen minutes,” offers Dirty Shirt solemn-like.
“He—he does?”
“He—he do,” nods Dirty. “The last bale was two pounds short; so Gunga Din ate Hassayampa’s pants for dessert. Them there tigers will eat a whole cow for a meal and you know what cows are worth right now.”
“Magpie—” Wick is almost cryin’ by this time—“Magpie, I asks you as a friend—what’ll I do?”