“Why, you know, Cy, for fixing up that little trouble.”

“Oh, that’s what you mean. Say, you don’t owe me a thin dime, not a greasy nickel.” Cy would wave a fat arm in the air. “I don’t take money for helping my friends. I sell licker, good licker; that’s my business.”

The chap would buy a few more rounds of drinks, thank Cy again, and start for the door. Cy would shout, “Hey, George, I forgot to tell you. I’m rafflin’ off a hoss an’ buggy and you’d better take a half dozen tickets. You stand to win a good rig.”

Around election time Cy would round up all the fellows he could, remind them that he had befriended them, and say, “What do we care who’s President of the United States? What we want is a decent justice of the peace and town marshal.”

I decided to pattern my life after Cy’s. He was a popular, successful man. I began swinging my arms about, talking in a loud, hoarse voice, wearing my hat on the back of my head. Cy smoked big cigars. I tried one, and gave up the notion of smoking, at least for a while.