“Nor; he dried, like, comin’ thew the air.”
I was uncertain whether he was a little flighty or was trying to quiz me, thinking I was city-green, and a look into his laughing grey eye rather confirming this last supposition, I was about to change the conversation, when Trip’s bark a little way off in the woods called our attention to him. We found the squirrel in the very top of a tree that did almost seem in the clouds.
“Lemme see you knock him out wi’ your little double-bar’l toot-a-poo.”
With the steadiest aim I could command, I gave him both barrels, one after the other, with no result whatever, my piece being a short bird gun, and the tree top an immense distance from the ground.
Ben said, “Now, let the old gal speak,” and sighting the old brown barrel a second, he fired. The squirrel made a frantic leap into the air, and fell right into Trip’s mouth. Reuben was in a dance of excitement, but felt that he must take my gun’s part.
“Marse John’s gun’s new; ‘taint got used to shootin’ yet.”
“What d’you know ‘bout guns, you little devil’s ink ball?” said Ben, turning to Reuben; “why d’nt you open your mouth when Satan was a paintin’ you, and git some black on your teeth. Well, Mr. Smith, less knock along todes home; its mos’ your breakfus time.”
“Won’t you go and take breakfast with me?”
“Nor, siree. Th’ old man said I was fool ‘nough last night to last a seas’n; but I’ll come in short to see them ladies agin, for sho’ they’re fine ‘uns.”
“You must be sure to come. You think they are pretty, do you?”