“‘Mr. Bud Drimple took first prize for the fattest pig at the fair.’” Mark peeked at me out of his little eyes that was twinkling like everything. “Maybe Bud Drimple was the f-f-fattest pig there and ought to have got the p-prize,” says he, “but he’ll hate to be t-told so.”
I didn’t say a word. Mark read another.
“‘Many folks asked Jacob Wester what he exhibited at the fair. He said it was a cow.’” Mark giggled. “What did it look like, Binney, if so many f-f-folks was uncertain about it? Did it resemble a l-locomotive or a sewin’ m-machine?”
“Huh!” says I. “You think you’re smart.”
“No,” says he, “I t-think you be. Here’s another: ‘Mrs. Hob Sweet was among those watching the prize Jersey cow. Many claimed she was the finest piece of live stock on the grounds.’ ... Which, Binney, the Jersey or Mis’ Sweet?”
“Anybody,” says I, “would know I meant the Jersey.”
“‘Jed Tingle,’” he read again, “‘who just got m-m-married to Myrtie Wise, bought him a new horse-whip, for which he s-s-says he’s got pressing need lately.’” Mark shook his head. “I dunno,” says he, “but we might get sued in court for accusin’ a man of thrashin’ his wife.”
“I didn’t,” says I. “That wasn’t why he had pressin’ need of that whip; it’s because, as everybody knows, he’s been stuck with a balky colt.”
“All right,” says Mark. “How about this? ‘Dave Ward made two purchases at the fair. One was a pie baked by Mrs. John Baird, and sold at the Methodist ladies’ booth. The other was a bottle of pain-killer.’”
“What’s wrong with that?” I says.