He was a large, smooth-jowled man inclined to portliness, and his laugh vibrated his entire front contagiously so that the others grinned and took it for granted that Casey Ryan was a comedy element introduced unexpectedly where they had thought to find him a tragedy.
"No, you're a pretty lively man for me to sit on; I admit it," the portly man remarked.

"I'm the coroner, and it looks as if I wouldn't sit, this trip." Casey eyed him blearily, not in the least mollified but instead swinging to a certain degree of lucidity that was nevertheless governed largely by the hoot he had swallowed in the hootch.
"There's part of a burro 'round here some'er's you c'n set on," Casey informed him grimly, and fumbled in his coat pocket for his pipe.

He drew it out empty, looked at it and returned it to his pocket.

One who knew Casey intimately would have detected a hidden purpose in his manner.

The warning was faint, indefinable at best, and difficult to picture in words.