“You might say it was.”
“You didn’t weaken, brother?” asks Old Testament pleading-like. “You
will still fight tooth and nail? Fight the good fight for us against
rum?”
“Yup,” nods Algy, “and I’ll say a few things against ginger ale.”
“Ginger ale?” asks Testament. “We often have it in our home.”
“Then don’t ask me up. Strong drink may be a mocker, but ginger ale is a
trail blazer to tremens.”
“You folks can go home,” says Bill McFee. “I done you a kindness, ’cause
somebody might ’a’ shot at you.”
“Kindness!” snaps Old Testament, bowing his neck at Bill. “I’d admire to
let you know that it was no kindness, sir! The Rev. Algernon Pettingill
Parsley has donated his services to fight the booze of the county.”
“Yeah, I know,” says Bill weary-like. “I had to drag him the last fifty
yards, Testament.”
It wasn’t no merry company that went back to Piperock. Scenery showed me
the rock he fell upon; so I stopped the team, got out and picked it up.
A rock like that deserves something better than just laying beside a
road. Magpie is home when I got there. He sizes me up and then grins.
“Lot of women been looking for you, Ike. Good thing they didn’t see you,
’cause you sure look like ——!”
“I’ve done a lot for you, Magpie,” says I, “and I don’t need chiding.
Them women are going to help me play ‘Ten Nights in a Barroom.’ _Sabe?_”
“Have you been to rehearsal, Ike?”
“Less than that,” says I. “I’ve been to jail.”
Then I flopped down to get a little sleep.
There’s a paper published in Paradise. It comes out every time the
editor can get paper enough to print it on. He must ’a’ had a streak of
luck, because Magpie wakes me up and hands me an edition. I looks her
over and then looks at Magpie.
“You done real well, Ike,” says he meanlike.
Across the top of the sheet in big letters is the following: