"_That's My Dill Pickle!_" Charming Billy Boyle was, to put it mildly, enjoying his enforced vacation very much.

To tell the plain truth and tell it without the polish of fiction, he was hilariously moistened as to his gullet and he was not thinking of quitting yet; he had only just begun.
He was sitting on an end of the bar in the Hardtip Saloon, his hat as far back on his head as it could possibly be pushed with any hope of its staying there at all.

He had a glass in one hand, a cigarette in the other, and he was raking his rowels rhythmically up and down the erstwhile varnished bar in buzzing accompaniment, the while he chanted with much enthusiasm: "How old is she, Billy boy, Billy boy?
How old is she, charming Billy?
Twice six, twice seven, Forty-nine and eleven--" The bartender, wiping the bar after an unsteady sheepherder, was careful to leave a generous margin around the person of Charming Billy who was at that moment asserting with much emphasis: "She's a young thing, and cannot leave her mother." "Twice-six's-twelve, 'n' twice-seven's-four-r-teen, 'n' twelve 'n' fourteen's--er--twelve--'n'-- fourteen--" The unsteady sheepherder was laboring earnestly with the problem.

"She ain't no spring chicken, she ain't!" He laughed tipsily, and winked up at the singer, but Billy was not observing him and his mathematical struggles.

He refreshed himself from the glass, leaving the contents perceptibly lower--it was a large, thick glass with a handle, and it had flecks of foam down the inside--took a pull at the cigarette and inquired plaintively: "Can she brew, can she bake, Billy boy, Billy boy?
Can she brew, can she bake, charming Billy ?" Another long pull at the cigarette, and then the triumphant declaration: "She can brew n' she can bake, She can sew n' she can make-- She's a young thing, and cannot leave her mother." "She ain't s' young!" bawled the sheepherder, who was taking it all very seriously.