Billy throwed back his haid and haw-hawed.
“You’re a dickens of a feller!” he says. “When you want to have you’ own way, I never seen any-body that could think up more gol-darned things.”
“And,” I continues, “if that Root-ee just had a lot of forty-rod mixed in it, it ’d be easier’n all git out to talk fellers into takin’ it. If they’d try one bottle, they’d shore take another.”
“Now, Cupid,” says Billy, like he was goin’ to scolt me.
“’R if ole man Baker ’d take the stuff and git his hearin’ back.”
“No show. Nothin’ but sproutin’ a new ear’d help Baker.”
Next person I seen was that Doc Simpson. He was a-settin’ on Silverstein’s porch, teeterin’ hisself in a chair. “Billy,” I says, “I’m goin’ over to put that critter up to buyin’. He’s got money and he cain’t do better’n spend it.”
Wal, a-course, Simpson was turrible uppy when I first spoke to him. Said he didn’t want nothin’ t’ say to me–not a word. (He had sev’ral risin’s on his face yet.)
“Wal, Doc,” I says, “I know you think I didn’t treat you square, but–has you city fellers any idear how mad you make us folks in the country when you go a-shootin’ ’round in them gasoline rigs of yourn? Why, I think if you’ll give this question some little study, you’ll see it has got two sides.”
“Yas,” says the Doc, “it has. But that ain’t why you treated me like you did. No, I ain’t green enough to think that.”