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"It's a long way to Arizona," offered Racey Dawson, casually too casually. Swing Tunstall's bristle-haired head jerked round. Swing bent two suspicious eyes upon his friend. "You just find it out?" he queried. "No, oh, no," denied Racey. "I've been thinking about it some time." "Thinking!" sneered Swing. "That's a new one for you." "Nemmine," countered Racey. "It ain't catchin' to you."
Dawson, head up, chest out, stepping high, and walking very stiffly as befitted a gentleman somewhat over-served with liquor, crossed the barroom to where bristle-haired Swing Tunstall sat on a chair and slumbered, his head on his arms and his arms on a table. Mr. Dawson stooped and blew into Mr. Tunstall's right ear. Mr. Tunstall began to snore gently.
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