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"Tell you what it is, b-b-boys," said the quack, growing communicative under the influence of the liquor and the fellowship, "if it wasn't for this b-b-blankety-blanketed impediment in my s-s-speech, I wouldn't need to work more'n about another y-y-year!" "How's that?" asked someone in the crowd.
"Then it must be Max and Owen coming back to camp from the river," Bandy-legs asserted. "Just as like as not," Steve admitted. "But what if the savage beast drops down on the shoulders of our chums?" said the other in tones that were full of horror. "C-c-come on, b-b-boys!" panted Toby. "Where to?" demanded Steve. "I'm comfortable just as I stand. What's eating you now, Toby Jucklin?"
Boys, oh, b-b-boys, come q-q-quick! I can't h-h-hold on much longer!" "Say, he must be away up in a tree!" exclaimed Steve. "No, his voice sounds closer to the ground than that," declared Max. "Tell you what," panted Bandy-legs from behind, "he's just gone and fell over some old cliff, that's what. You know how clumsy Toby is."
"Have a drink, b-b-boys?" he asked, looking over the crowd with an air of superiority and waving his hand with an inclusive gesture. The motley throng of loafers sidled up to the bar with a deprecatory and automatic movement. They took their glasses, clinked them, nodded to their entertainer, muttered incoherent toasts and drank his health.
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