“‘Brother,’ I says kindly, ‘two sacks o’ hams weighs four hundred pounds, and four hundred pounds is four hundred pounds too much. I won’t take one more sack.’
“‘An’ I thought you called yourself a mule skinner,’ he says, with one o’ these here movin’ picture sneers.
“‘In a way,’ I says, ‘I am. These here mules,’ I says, ‘are willin’, pullin’ fools, an’ it’s been whispered that California Bill c’n handle ’em. I know a load when I see it. I got it now.’
“‘You’re nothin’ but a joke,’ he says. ‘Why, I myself know more about mules than you ever dreamed of. You’ll take two more sacks o’ hams or I’ll fire you.’
“Then I’m up an’ at ’im—seems—all spread out linguistically. ‘Neighbor,’ I says, ‘you didn’t hire me, an’ ye can’t fire me. Why, you couldn’t fire a cigarette. This here’s th’ most hi-yu skookum team bustin’ collar-stitchin’ between here an’ Ragtown, an’ I’m th’ most hi-yu skookum nursemaid to a mule that ever lost a currycomb. I was skinnin’ mules when yer maw was scoldin’ yer paw f’r not keepin’ his hand in th’ middle o’ yer back when he walked th’ floor with ye at night. You don’t know a mule from a mulley cow. If all th’ mules I’ve wrangled was to stand a mile away an’ kick in your direction, th’ wind from their heels would scare you into a cyclone cellar. Why, ye puny little dude, if ye was to get one whiff of a mule’s collar after a hard day’s pull ye’d get cholera morbus. If real mule skinners like me was only gettin’ ten cents a day,’ I says, ‘you couldn’t get ten cents a month for skinnin’ peaches in a cannery. Go put on an apron an’ swat flies! You think a mule’s born with his tail shaved, don’t ye? If ye had a mule an’ lost ’im on th’ desert, ye’d go out an’ try to run down th’ first jackrabbit ye saw, thinkin’ he was him. If I was to cut a mule’s ears off,’ I says, ‘an’ tie a couple o’ them cigarette holders like you got on top his head, ye’d think he was a ji-raffe who’s maw had forgot to teach him how to squat behind. There,’ I says, ‘now you be good, or I’ll crawl up there an’ drag ye down an’ make ye kiss my off lead mule, then kill th’ mule before he kills me.’
“An’ as I drives loftily away he begins on me, with his pink little jowls shakin’ like a pup dyin’ of strychnine poisonin’, ‘You—you—you—!’
“An’ then I turns an’ looks ’im square in th’ eye an’ kinda pulls in on all six lines. And he finishes:
“‘You—you moron!’
“And, confound ’im, I hadn’t a word to say, ’cause I didn’t know what he’d called me. Le’s hit th’ hay, Tony—it’s gettin’ late.”