How long the clock-peddler would have continued to enumerate his wonderful qualifications, must forever remain unknown, as Jim McCabe soon saw proper to interrupt him.
“For heaven’s sake desist,” he pleaded. “You are offended because I asked you a question. I have an object, I assure you.”
The “down-east” specimen seemed to relent at this.
“Maybe I’m in the wrong,” he said, after a pause. “I believe you axed me ef I’d heern any thing?”
“Yes.”
“Now that is a queer question, and no mistake. Heern any thing! Drat it, man, d’ you s’pose I’m deef? How could I help hearin’ you when you screeched out like a red Injun, and shot a salute over the last restin’-place o’ the poor cuss as sleeps beneath this sod?”
“Did you hear that?”
“Did I? Why, chaw me up, I thought at first you was bangin’ away at me, and I flew tew kiver in the jerk of a possum’s ear.”
“Where were you?”
“Where was I? When you let that dot-rotted gun o’ your’n go off I was settin’ right thar on that grave—”