“I reckon,” I says hopeful. And I hunted up my new boss.
He didn’t give me such a lot t’ do them days–except t’ show up at the feed-shop three times reg’lar. That struck me as kinda funny–’cause he was as flush as a’ Osage chief.
“Why don’t you grub over to the eatin’-house oncet in a while?” I ast him. “They got all kinds of tony things–tomatoes and cucumbers and as-paragrass, and them little toadstool things.”
“And out here in the desert!” says Boston. “I s’pose they bring ’em from other places.”
“Not on you’ life!” I answers. “They grow ’em right here–in flower pots.”
Out come a pencil. “How pictureskew!” Boston says,–and put it down.
End of that first week, when I stopped in at the Arnaz place fer supper, I says to him, “Wal,” I says, “book about done?”
He was layin’ back lazy in a chair,–as usual–watchin’ Carlota trot the crock’ry in. He batted his eyes. “Done!” he repeats. “No. Why, I ain’t got only a few notes.”
“Notes?” I says; “notes?” I was turrible disappointed. (I reckon I was worryin’ over the book worse’n he was.) “Why, say, couldn’t you make nothin’ outen that bad man who was a-paintin’ the town the other night?”
“Just a bad man don’t make a book,” says Boston; “leastways, only a yalla-back. But take a bad man, and a gal, and you git a story of ad-venture.”