“Say, Mack, what is the difference between a drinking man and a drowning man?”
“Beats me, Wally. Didn’t know there was a difference between a drinking man and a drowning man.”
“The drowning man sinks in water. The drinking man sinks in whiskey.”
“Say, Wally,” asked Mack, “here comes a passerby, strolling by the sea, what does the drowning man yell?”
“Throw me a rope.”
“What does the drinking man yell?”
“Throw me a bottle.”
They looked to Bell for a laugh.
Stone-faced, Isaac Bell said, “I worked with Wish Clarke in Wyoming and New Orleans. He’s sharp as they come.”
“So’s a busted bottle.”
“I also remember when you ‘spavined geezers’ took over my apprenticeship from Mr. Van Dorn, you taught me plenty. And you weren’t so spavined that you couldn’t clear a saloon of Harry Frost’s boys.”
“Your recent apprenticeship,” Kisley and Fulton chorused.
Bell saw that the old detectives were not joking but deadly serious and with a purpose. Kisley stared hard at him. Mack Fulton got down to brass tacks.
“Who’s ramrodding this outfit?”
“It’s my case,” said Isaac Bell. “I am.”
Kisley said, “It was not long ago we was changing your diapers in Chicago.”
“I’ve got the hang of it since.”
The partners shot back obstinate glowers and Mack said, flatly, “The man bossing an outfit has to change everyone
’s diapers and still stay on top of the case.”
“You’re looking at him.”
“I’m looking at a kid who started shaving yesterday,” Fulton shot back.
“Spouting highfalutin French,” Kisley piled on. “Provocateur? Whatever happened to good old agitator?”
“Or provoker?”
“Or instigator?”
Isaac Bell was constitutionally incapable of punching a man twice his age, but he was getting tempted.
Suddenly, Aloysius Clarke was standing in the doorway.
He was a big, red-faced fellow who moved quietly.
Bell said, “Hello, Wish.”
Clarke nodded. “Kid.”
“We was just discussin’ who ramrods this outfit,” said Mack Fulton.