“I’m the trapper of the mount’n top,
A ring-tail-snorter an’ a dead-sure shot.
I’m wild, I’m woolly an’ full o’ fleas,
I’ve never bin’ curried below the knees,
I live on the fruit o’ the prickly pear,
An’ I play in the brush with the grizzly bear.”
“Here’s hopin’ ye’ll never see the back o’ yer neck,” he added. Then placing the cup to his lips he drained the contents with one great gulp. John’s jaws were well-nigh toothless, and as the fiery liquor scorched his throat his leathery cheeks folded and unfolded like the pleats of an accordion.
“Wow!” he yelped, “she’s sure got a kick.”
The humorous toast and the trapper’s facial contortions sent Andy into paroxysms of laughter.
“Strike me blind!” he gasped, as he held his sides. “I never——” His eyes rested again on the trapper’s convulsed features. Speech failed him and he sank writhing to a chair.