If I don't get rye whisky I surely will die."

Like the boy in the story, Jerry could sing without stuttering. But when he began again to talk, his enunciation was worse than ever.

"Buh-buh-buh-whistle for the crossing--but I ain't gug-gug-gargle gonna die. Nun-nun-not me. I gug-got rye whuh-whisky."

He put the bottle to his lips and went through all the motions of taking a hearty pull. "Fuf-funny," he said, holding the bottle at arm's length. "Wuh-wuh whisky lul-lul-lost all its taste."

"Take the cork out," suggested Guerilla.

"Cuc-cuc-cork?" smiled Jerry Fern. "I'll tut-take cuc-cork out."

So saying he smashed the bottle neck against the edge of the table, broke it short off, and drank without ceasing till the bottle was empty. He held the bottle against the light. He pressed it to his ear. He shook it. Then he tossed it nonchalantly over his shoulder, laid his cheek on the table and began to snore.

This would never do. Guerilla and Dawson shook him awake.

"Mush been shleep," mumbled Jerry, knuckling his eyes. "Gimme anuzzer dud-drink."

"Not yet," said Guerilla firmly. "Is Felix Craft a good friend of yours, Jerry?"

"h.e.l.luva good fuf-fuf-friend," was the instant reply.

"He doesn't pay you enough," prompted the carefully drilled Dawson.

"Thash whu-what I tut-told him!" cried Jerry Fern, pounding the table with a vehement fist. "I ought tut-tut-to have num-more."

"He's treatin' you mean," said Guerilla. "He ain't goin' to give you any more money."

"Yesh he wuh-will," insisted Jerry.

"He told me different." Thus Dawson.

"Yesh he wuh-will. Huh-he'll have to gimme all money I want. Pup-put him in juh-juh-jail if he don't."

Guerilla and Dawson looked toward the doorway giving into the other room. Then they began to laugh immoderately. "That's a good one,"

cried Guerilla, wiping his eyes. "You can't put Felix Craft in jail.

He hasn't done anything wrong."

"Oh, ain't he?" flared Jerry Fern with all the drunkard's irritation at being disbelieved. "I know more abub-bub-bout Fuf-felix Cuc-craft than you thuh-think. I cuc-can muh-make Fuf-felix Cuc-craft lul-lie dud-down and rur-roll over."

"Yes, you can." With derision.

"Yeah, I cuc-can!"

"What makes you think so?"

"I know all rur-right," vaguely.

This was maddening. Billy, in the other room, yearned to take Jerry Fern by the scruff of his drunken neck and squeeze the truth out of him.

"You don't know a thing about Felix Craft," persisted Guerilla. "Not a thing."

"d.a.m.n shame he don't pay you enough," chipped in Dawson.

"Maybe if I went to him I could get more money for you," suggested Guerilla. He waited a moment for the meaning of this to sink in before adding, "What will I tell him."

"Tut-tell him I'll tell if he dud-don't pup-pay."

This sounded promising. "Tell what?"

"Tut-tell whuh-who held up the sush-sush-stage."

"Oh, that's nothing," said Guerilla. "Felix told me all about that.

He said you didn't help him out a-tall."

Jerry Fern was instantly up in arms. "I dud-did so," he chattered.

"He knows bub-better. Did-didn't he plan it all out wuh-with mum-me nun-nun-not to cuc-cuc-cut down on him, and didn't I tut-tell the pup-pa.s.sengers to muh-make sure of Bub-bill's clothes and the bub-bra.s.s gug-gug-guard of his six-shu-shooter? Did-didn't I? Did-didn't I?

Yeah, and his huh-horse and all too? Dud-didn't I do all them thuh-things acc-acc-accordin' to cuc-contract? Did-didn't I?

Cuc-course I did. And if Fuf-felix do-don't pay up, I'll pup-put him in jail."

"That's right," Guerilla soothed him. "Do anything you want with him."

He went to the door of the other room and whispered, "Has he said enough, Bill?"

"About," answered Billy, pushing his chair back and standing up.

"But maybe he won't repeat it under oath when he's sober," worried Guerilla.

"We won't wait that long. We'll sic him on Felix right now. You go find out where Felix is, will you, Guerilla, and-- Here, wait a shake!

Better have Shotgun Shillman and Riley Tyler in on this. Huh? Course not! Don't tell 'em I'm here. Tell 'em----"

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

JONESY'S ULTIMATUM

"You can't tell me that infernal Bill Wingo ain't at the bottom of all this business!" snarled Felix Craft. "Guerilla Melody and that Dawson friend of his didn't get Slike by themselves any more than I did. I tell you flat, Bill Wingo was the boss of that job. He was the brains, and you can't tell me different."

"And there was a time when we thought Bill didn't have any brains," Sam Larder grieved bitterly.

"I didn't," avowed the district attorney. "I always knew----"

"Oh, you!" interrupted Felix with a sneer. "You know it all, you do.

You know so much, maybe you'll explain why Reelfoot says you told him Tip O'Gorman was gonna tangle him up in the Walton murder and that the easiest way was for him to down Tip."

"He says Rafe Tuckleton told him that," corrected the district attorney.

"He says you did too," accused Sam Larder. "What did you tell him a thing like that for?"