"Aw, punk!" says Sam. "What kind of a book is it goin' t' be, anyhow, with us punchers in it!" "Wait till you hear what I got t' _do,_" I answers. "To _con_tinue: He mentioned char_ac_ters. Course, I had to _ad_mit we're kinda shy on _them._" "Wisht we had a few Injuns," says Hairoil. "A scalpin' makes _mighty_ fine readin'. Now, mebbe, 'Pache Sam'd pass,--if he was lickered up proper." "Funny," I says, "but he didn't bring up Injuns. Reckon they ain't stylish no more. But he put it plain that he'd got to have a bad man. Said in a Western book you _allus_ got t' have a bad man." "Since we strung up them two Foster boys." says Bergin, "Briggs ain't had what you'd call a bad man. In view of this writin' feller comin', I don't know, gents, but what we was a little _hasty_ in the Foster matter." "Wal," I says, "we got t' do our best with what's left. This findin' mawterial fer a book ain't no dead open-and-shut proposition. 'Cause Briggs ain't big, and it ain't what you'd call bad. That'll hole us back. But let's dig in and make up fer what's lackin'." Wal, we rustled 'round. First off, we togged ourselves out the way punchers allus look in magazines. (I knowed that was how he wanted us.) We rounded up all the shaps in town, with orders to wear 'em constant--and made Dutchy keep 'em on, too! Then, guns: Each of us carried six, kinda like a front fringe, y' savvy. Next, one of the boys loped out t' the Lazy X and brung in a young college feller that'd come t' Oklahomaw a while back fer his health. It 'pears that he'd been readin' a Western book that was writ by a' Eastern gent somewheres in Noo Jersey. And, say! he was the wildest lookin' cow-punch that's ever been saw in these parts! We'd no more'n got all fixed up nice when, "Ssh!" says Buckshot, "here he comes!" "Quick, boys!" I says, "we got t' sing. It's expected." The sheriff, he struck up---- "Paddy went to the Chinaman with only one shirt. How's that?" "_That's tough!_" we hollers, loud enough to lift the shakes. "He lost of his ticket, says, 'Divvil the worse', How's that?" "_That's tough!_" Mister Boston stopped byside the door. The sheriff goes on---- "Aw, Pat fer his shirt, he begged hard and plead, But, 'No tickee, no washee', the Chinaman said. Now Paddy's in jail, and the Chinaman's dead! How's that?" "_That's tough!_" It brung him. He looked in, kinda edged through the door, took a bench, and _sur_veyed them shaps, and them guns till his eyes plumb _pro_truded. "Rippin'!" I heerd him say. "'That's tough,'" repeats Monkey Mike, winkin' to the boys. "Wal, I should _re_mark it was!--to go t' jail just fer pluggin' a Chink. Irish must 'a' felt like two-bits." Boston lent over towards me. "What's two bits?" he ast. "What's two bits," says Rawson. "Don't you know? Wal, _one_ bit is what you can take outen the other feller's hide at one mouthful. _Two_ bits, a-course, is two of 'em."