“I’ll take it,” says he.
“Mr. Harper,” says Magpie dignified-like.
I kicks the door shut, slides my gun around where I can get it real quick and looks my old pardner over. He’s shaved. Yeah, you can always tell when Magpie has shaved, because he’s got so danged many wounds. He’s got on a celluloid collar—one of them kind that it ain’t safe to smoke in. I can smell stove polish, which Magpie has used on his boots.
Take it all the way around, Magpie Simpkins is a dude.
“You ain’t got yore days mixed, have yuh?” I asked.
“Days mixed?”
He speaks like an actor—kinda runnin’ the scale in G flat, as yuh might say.
“This ain’t Sunday,” says I.
“I am well aware of it.”
“Then what’s the idea of dressin’ up thisaway?”