The last place I locked wheels with Mike Butters was in Idaho. I’d just sold a silver-lead prospect and was proclaimin’ my prosperity with soundin’ brass and ticklin’ symbols. I was tuned up to G and singin’ quartettes with the bartender–opery buffet, so to speak–when in Mike walked. It was a bright morning out-side and I didn’t reco’nize him at first against the sunlight.
“Where’s that cholera-morbus case?” said he.