shirt. For it had been the bartender's luck to hook his chin on the
edge of the lowest shelf when he dropped and he had perforce remained
crown upward.

Doc Coffin stood back and stared at the stertorously breathing lump on
the floor with a cold eye.

"Ain't he a mess?" he observed. "Ain't he a mess? I expect he'll be
right down peevish about it when he comes to."

"Think so?" Honey Hoke was not quite sure of the point of Doc's
remark.

"Yeah, I think so. I'm shore he will when I tell him how he was
kicked."

"Kicked?"

"Shore kicked. Kicked after he was down."

"How?"

"Didn't you see that feller Dawson kick Bull when he was down? Where
was yore eyes?"

"That's the way of it, huh? Well, it _might_ save trouble if Bull was
to go on the prod real vicious."

"Yo're whistlin'. They ain't no manner of reason for doin' a job
yoreself if you can get somebody else to do it for you."