“THIS old place is sure pleasin’ to the n***d eye,” said Hashknife the following morning, while Sleepy washed his face noisily at the old wash-bench near the kitchen door. “I like this old patio, Sleepy. Them walls were sure built to ward off bullets.”
“Yeah, and we’re in a peaceable neighborhood,” grunted Sleepy, his eyes shut against the sting of soap-suds, while he pawed awkwardly along the wall, trying to locate the towel, which Hashknife had deftly removed.
“Where’s that damn towel!” he roared. “Gimme that, before I scalp yuh. Dang yuh, Hashknife, you’ve got a hell of an idea of humor. Ow-w-w-w! Please! My God, if I ever git m’ eyes open ag’in, I’ll scalp yuh.”
Sleepy danced violently, his dripping hands held at right angles to his body.
“Whatsa idea of the ghost-dance?” queried H
