AMBITION LURES
“Ed, dog-gone my cats ef I know whether I want to fight Indians or not! I’m afraid One-eyed Sam’ll have ’em all killed ’fore we kin git there.” A new ambition had struck me and I was wabbling between being a stage-driver or an Indian fighter. Ed was amazed and replied:
“Dod-bust it, Laze, ain’t we done ’greed to go, an’ got ready? They ain’t nothin’ in this pokey ol’ country to keep a fellow awake.”
“Huh! I’d druther be in Granville Thompson’s place an’ drive the Huntsville stage than to kill all the Indians I ever see,” I ventured.
“If I thought there was any more bugle horns in the worl’ lack Granville’s an’ I could git to blow one, I’d druther be one, too,” said Ed. “I’d druther come a-sailin’ up the river lane on top o’ that big ol’ stage a-yank-in’ them lines over four horses jes’ a-prancin’ an’ a-gallopin’, an’ a-toot-in’ a tune on that brass bugle—Ta-ta-te-ta-ra-ah! Gen-tul-men! I’d druther be that than to be a policeman almos’. But we done promise the boys, Laze—how’re we goin’ to git outer that?”
“’Spect we better not let on for a while,” I said, “cause we mightn’t git to drive a stage. But we gotter do sump’un mighty quick, Ed. Dog-gone ef I ain’t jes’ a-gittin’ hungry to smash sump’un-nuther.”
“Git your pistol, Laze, an’ le’s go over the river an’ kill hogs. That’ll keep up the tas’e in our mouths ’till we go Wes’.”
“I lack to clean forgot,” I said excitedly. “’Sposin’ we run off with that circus that’s a-comin’ nex’ week? Betcher I kin ride stan’in’ up ef you’ll let me put rozum on my stockin’ feet.”
“I done bin thinkin’ ’bout that, but ef I don’t go out Wes’ I ’spect I’ll hafter be a dod-busted preacher. They’re jes’ after me at home all the time to be a big preacher,” said Ed. “I dunno whether to be a circus rider or a preacher, Laze. Which’d you druther?”
“Shucks, feller—anybody kin preach. I want to be sump’un sho’nuf when I git a man. I’d druther have a grocery store lack Bill Yates’s than to be a dratted presidin’ elder or a bishop. Ef I had a store lack that with nothin’ to do but to eat candy, an’ cheese, an’ sardines, an’ pickles, an’ sech things, an’ set up in the back room an’ play the fiddle an’ chew terbacker an’ spit, dog-gone my cats ef I’d quit that to be a policeman or a emperor.”
“So’d I,” said Ed, “but what’s the use o’ tryin’ to do that? Betcher Bill Yates’s got more’n fifty dollars worth o’ goods. Nex’ time you’ll wanter be a queen o’ somewheres. I never see sech a feller for tryin’ to git to be the bigges’ man in all this whole worl’.”
“They’re raisin’ me to be president,” I said sorrowfully, “an’ I ’spect I oughter be in Congress right now. All of ’em at home don’t want me to be nothin’ but some dad-gum little thing lack that.”
“Well, if I hafter be a dod-busted bishop an’ you nothin’ but president, the boys’ll laugh us clean outer town,” said Ed.
The foregoing conversation occurred on our wood-pile one moonshiny night about frost. There is no telling what heights Ed and I might have attained if our destinies had not been controlled by persons totally devoid of ambition to shine in the greater walks of life.
[This isn’t all]