"Here!" Chip untied Weary's hands and feet and took him by the shoulder.
"Wake up, Willie, if you want to be Queen o' the May."

Weary sat up and rubbed his eyes. "Confound them two Jacks! What time
is it ?"

"A little after eight. YOUR crowd hasn't, come yet, so you needn't
worry. I'm not going up yet for a while, myself."

"You're off your feed. Brace up and take all there is going, my son."
Weary prepared to finish his interrupted beautification.

"I'm going to--all the bottles, that is. If that Dry Lake gang comes
loaded down with whisky, like they generally do, we ought to get hold
of it and cache every drop, Weary."

Weary turned clear around to stare his astonishment.

"When did the W. C. T. U. get you by the collar?" he demanded.

"Aw, don't be a fool, Weary," retorted Chip. "You can see it wouldn't
look right for us to let any of the boys get full, or even half shot,
seeing this is the Little Doctor's dance."

Weary meditatively scraped his left jaw and wiped the lather from the
razor upon a fragment of newspaper.

"Splinter, we've throwed in together ever since we drifted onto the
same range, and I'm with you, uh course. But--don't overlook Dr. Cecil
Granthum. I'd hate like the devil to see you git throwed down, because