colt, but the voice of Peppers went ahead with the bellow.
"But the stillhouse bein' close an' the licker bein' free
I took to the licker, an' the licker took to me.
I took to the licker, till I reeled an' I fell,
An' the whole cussed drove went a-trailin' off to hell."
Ump arose and waved his pitcher. "Hold up, Parson," he said. "Here 's to them merry maids that got lost in the shuffle. 'T ain't like you to lose 'em."
The suggestion was timely. The song ran to fifty-nine verses, and no others printable.
Peppers dropped the fiddle and seized the pitcher. "Correct," he roared. "Here 's to 'em. May the Lord bless 'em, an' bind 'em, an' tie their hands behind 'em, an' put 'em in a place where the devil can't find 'em."
"Nor you," mumbled Ump in the echo.
They drank, and the hunchback eyed his man over the rim of the pitcher. The throat of the Parson did not move. It was clear that Peppers had reached the danger line, and, what was fatal to the plan of Ump, he knew it. He
