The solemn voice that had croaked "S-o-m-e time!" so frequently,
took to monotonous, recriminating speech. "No-body home!
No-body home! Had to spill the beans, you simps! Nobody home a-tall!
Had to shoot a man--got us all in wrong, you simps! Nobody home!" He
waggled his head and flapped his hands in drunken self-righteousness,
because he had not possessed a gun and therefore could not have
committed the blunder of shooting the man.

"Aw, can that stuff! You're as much to blame as anybody," snapped the
man nearest him, and gave the croaker a vicious jab with his elbow.

"Don't believe that guy got hep to our number! Didn't have time," an
optimist found courage to declare.

"What darn fool was it that shot first? Oughta be crowned for that!"

"Aw, the boob started it himself! He fired on us--and we were only
joshing!"

"He got his, all right!"

"Don't believe we killed him--sure, he was more scared than hurt," put
in the optimist dubiously.

"No-body home," croaked the solemn one again, having recovered his
breath.

They wrangled dismally and unconvincingly together, but no one put
into speech the fear that rode them hard. Fast as Jack drove, they
kept urging him to "Step on 'er!" A bottle that had been circulating