With a vague but not fleeting smile, Ross settled the sheets in order, and exhibited tokens of that pleasant nevousness incident to appearing before a critical audience, armed with literature whose merits should delight them out of the critical attitude. “I run across a great scheme down there,” he volunteered amiably, by way of preface; “I described everything in full, in as many words as I could think up; it's mighty filling, and it'll please the public, too; it gives 'em a lot more information than they us'ally git. I reckon there's two sticks of jest them extry words alone.”
“Go on,” said the foreman, rather ominously.
Ross began to read, a matter necessitating a puckered brow and at times an amount of hesitancy and ruminating, as his results had already cooled a little, and he found his hand difficult to decipher. “Here's the first,” he said:
“'The large and handsome, fawn-colored, two years and one-half year old Jersey of Frederick Bibshaw Jones, Esquire——'”
The foreman interrupted him: “Every reader of the 'Herald' will be glad to know that Jersey's age and color! But go on.”
“'—Frederick Bibshaw Jones, Esquire,'” pursued his assistant, with some discomfiture, “'—Esquire, our popular and well-dressed fellow-citizen——'”
“You're right; Bib Jones is a heavy swell,” said Parker in a breaking voice.
“'—Citizen, can be daily seen wandering from the far end of his pasture-lot to the other far end of it.'”
“'His!'” exclaimed Parker. “'His pasture-lot?' The Jersey's?”
“No,” returned the other, meekly, “Bib Jones's.”