Part 71 (1/2)
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.”