"I'll make him drunk," Guerilla said earnestly. "And I'll make him talk, or there ain't a drop of virtue in Old Crow."
Guerilla flipped on his hat and departed.
Half an hour later Guerilla returned, bringing his sheaves with him. And, oh, the sheaves were merry and, oh, the sheaves were drunk. Guerilla himself was giving an admirable imitation of a roistering blade.
"Meet my friend, Mister Johnny Dawson," said Guerilla, waving an expansive hand toward the erstwhile strayman.
"Huh, h'are you, Misher Juh-johnny Duh-duh-daw-son," said Jerry Fern, solemnly shoving out a wavering paw and missing the mark by eighteen inches. "Washer name of other tut-tut-twin?"
For a bad moment Dawson feared that Billy Wingo had been foolish enough to come in from the other room. Then he understood. "His name's Eliphalet," he made reply, solemnly turning to the empty air on his right.
Jerry Fern again pumphandled the empty air. "Pup-pup-pleased meetcha," he stuttered. "Cuc-cuc-cuc-can't pup-pronounce name, but thash all ri'. All li'l friends tut-together. Wheresh bottle? You gug-got bub-bub-bottle, Guh-guh-gil-Guerilla?"
"Sit down," urged Guerilla, steering Jerry to anchor. "Here's your bottle."
Jerry Fern clasped the bottle to his bosom and sang a lusty stave.
"Rye whisky, rye whisky,
Rye whisky, I cry.
If I don't get rye whisky
I surely will die."