Buck was speechless as his fingers closed on the documents.
“We’ll hope to see you over on Tuesday morning, Mr. Ashley, so that you can secure a good site for your new store. Now I must be going. We have got to be in Bakersfield by eleven o’clock.”
“Honk-honk,” and the automobile was gone.
“Hell, Buck, have you lost your tongue?” cried Tom Baker, slipping the storekeeper on the shoulder. “Don’t you see what it all means? You’re goin’ to shift camp, old man; you’re goin’ into the new town.”
“Gosh ‘lmighty!” murmured Buck, at last recovering the power of articulation. “I think the first thing to do is to lubricate.”
“A taste from the mystery keg,” suggested the sheriff, as they all crowded back into the store.
“The mystery keg? What’s that?” asked Munson.
Buck laid his hand on a small barrel at the end of the counter.
“We call it the mystery keg,” he replied, “because we just found it yesterday mornin’ settin’ at my back door. It has come to us sorta like manna from heaven.”
“And tastes like manna, too,” interjected Baker.