"Why, Lucas," answered the cook, placidly. "Lemme tell you something. When you want to lose me have a invite to a water-drinkin' contest. An' before you go, be shore to rub Hoppy's boots some more; that's such a pasty shine it 'll look like sand-paper before you get to th'—dance. You want to make it hard an' slippery. An' I 've read som'ers that only wimmin ought to smell like a drug-store. You better let her do th' fumigatin'."
Johnny surrendered and dolefully whiffed the crushed violets he had paid two bits a pint for at El Paso—it was not necessary to whiff them, but he did so.
"You ought to hone yore razor, too," continued the cook, critically.
"I told Buck it was dull, I ain't goin' to sharpen it for him. But, say, are you shore about th' perfumery?"
"Why, of course."
"But how 'll I git it off?"
"Bury th' clothes," suggested Cookie, grinning.
