"'For God's sake, lemme up,' says Heegan, splashin' along and
look-in' strangly. I hauls him in where he wouldn't miss any of my
ironies, and says:--

"'I just can't do it, Oily--it's wash day. You're plumb nasty with
boycotts and picketin's and compulsory arbitrations. I'm goin' to
clean you up,' and I sozzled him under like a wet shirt.

"I drug him out again and continues:--

"'This is Chinamen's work, Oily, but I lost my pride in the
Bridewell, thanks to you. It's tough on St. Louis to laundry you up
stream this way, but maybe the worst of your heresies 'll be purified
when they get that far.' You know the Chicago River runs up hill out
of Lake Michigan through the drainage canal and into the St. Louis
waterworks. Sure it does--most unnatural stream I ever see about
direction and smells.

"I was gettin' a good deal of enjoyment and infections out of him
when old man Badrich ran back enamelled with blood and passe tomato
juice, the red in his white hair makin' his top look like one of
these fancy ice-cream drinks you get at a soda fountain.

"'Here! here! you'll kill him,' says he, so I hauled him aboard,
drippin' and clingy, wringin' him out good and thorough--by the neck.
He made a fine mop.

"These clippings," continued "Bitter Root," fishing into his pocket,
"tell in beautiful figgers how the last seen of Oily Heegan he was