“That’s where a mule kicked me and put his laig out of joint,” said Tubbs humorously.
“Ah, that renders the skull pathological; but, even so, it is an interesting skull to an anthropologist—a really valuable skull, it would be to me, illustrating as it does certain features in dispute, for which I have stubbornly contended in controversies with the Preparator of Anthropology at the École des Haute Études in Paris.”
“Why don’t you sell it to him, Tubbs?” suggested Ralston, who had listened in unfeigned amusement.
Tubbs, startled, clasped both hands over the top of his head and backed off.
“Why, I need it myself.”
“Certainly—we understand that; but supposing you were to die—supposing something happened to you, as is liable to happen out here—you wouldn’t care what became of your skull, once you were good and dead. If it were sold, you’d be just that much in, besides making an invaluable contribution to science,” Ralston urged persuasively.
“It not infrequently happens that paupers, and prisoners sentenced to suffer capital punishment, dispose of their bodies for anatomical purposes, for which they are paid in advance. As a matter of fact, Tubbs,” declared McArthur earnestly, “my superficial examination of your head has so impressed me that upon the chance of some day adding it to my collection I am willing to offer you a reasonable sum for it.”
“It’s on bi-products that the money is made,” declared Ralston soberly, “and I advise you not to let this chance pass. You can raise money on the rest of your anatomy any time; but selling your head separately like this—don’t miss it, Tubbs!”
“Don’t I git the money till you git my head?” Tubbs demanded suspiciously.
“I could make a first payment to you, and the remainder could be paid to your heirs.”