“Magpie, does them fellers have to pay Doc for his opinion?”
“Nope. They pay the five dollars and get examined free.”
“I need looking over,” opines Dirty, “so you can fill me out one of them
application things.”
Magpie fixes him up and he was the last one to go inside. The rest of
them just sets there and glares at each other. Magpie comes down and
has a little talk with the quartet and then they gets up and starts
out.
“Why for does the canaries leave?” asks Half-Mile, and Muley says:
“This here bunch of golden-voiced warblers are going to leave before the
list is posted. _Sabe?_ We came to praise Cæsar--not to bury him.”
Then Dirty came out and sat down beside me. Magpie and Scenery cocks
their guns and hooks their toes around the legs of their chairs. Doc
Milliken tiptoes up to Magpie and hands him the list.
Guns seem to appear from every waistband, and I seen Ole Testament spit
on his hands and pick up his fork-handle. As Magpie stands up I hears
several guns click.
“Gents,” says Magpie, “we’re going to give you all an even break.
All of you get up and walk to the back of the room. Then you form a
line, like you was going to run a race; _sabe?_ I am going to tack
this list against the wall up here, and when I give the word you can
all walk--walk, not run--up to where you can read your fate. Me and
Scenery are going to stand here, and the first man who hurries,
shoves, trips or otherwise hampers his neighbor will spend eternity
picking buckshot out of his earthly envelope. Now, line up--dang
yuh, line up!”
They followed directions to the letter while Magpie nails that fatal
sheet to the wall.
“Go!” says Magpie, and they went, while the orchestra played, soft and
low, “What Shall the Harvest Be?”