When Oscar Went Wild

by W. C. Tuttle
Author of “Derelicts of the Hills,” “Magpie’s Nightbear.”
Ren Merton and Sig Watson had spent the night in Piperock and of a consequence were in no shape to appreciate the beauties of the dewy morn, as their horses picked their way up the trail to the top of Overwhich ridge.
“Them Piperock fellers play poker like I sing,” stated Sig, as they pulled up their mounts for a breathing spell. “They gits their words and music so mixed that nobody knows what they’re tryin’ to do. They’re uh success, though.”
Ren removed his sombrero with an exaggerated flourish and, lifting himself in his stirrups, broke forth in a shrill falsetto:
“Nobode-e-e-e knows how dry I am.”
“Shut up!”
“Mama mine, he won’t let me sing,” wailed Ren. “I lost jist as much as he did and m’ head aches jist as hard and he won’t let m’ sing. What do yuh know about that!”
“Jist don’t sing, that’s all,” replied Sig. “You can say all th’ funny things yuh wants to to yoreself, but I’m right here to remark that singin’—yore kind uh singin’—ain’t in de-mand a-tall. Sabe? ”
“Always misunderstood,” mumbled Ren. “Th’ human race ain’t never understood me. Mother misunderstood me; father follered suit, and now you—Siggie, my old pal—you turns on me.”
“Misunderstood!” Sig turned in his saddle and gazed reflectively at his partner. “Ren Merton, if you was ever entered fer th’ human race you shore was scratched. Yore nose ain’t right—too long. Yuh got uh bad case uh squints in both uh yore eyes, and yore mouth, which was cut too wide in th’ first place, ain’t shrunk none a-tall. Shoulders? Say, I sometimes wonder how comes it that yore collar don’t slip down and trip yuh. Also, yore right foot is where yore left ought to be.”
“Pickled prairie-dogs, that’s right!” agreed Ren. “I reckon I shore must a been muddled this mawnin’ when I puts on m’ boots.”