“He shore is.” I riz. “Sorry,” I says, “but I got to mosey now. Promised Mrs. Bridger I’d take her some groceries down.” I started out, all business. But I stopped at the door. “Reckon I’ll have to make two trips of it–if I cain’t git someone t’ help me.”
Say! it was plumb pitiful the way Bergin grabbed at the chanst. “Why, I don’t mind takin’ a stroll,” he answers, gittin’ some red. So he put down the spuds and begun to curry that cowlick of hisn.
First part of the way, he walked as spry as me. But, as we come closter to the widda’s, he got to hangin’ back. And when we reached a big pile of sand that was out in front of the house–he balked!
“Guess I won’t go in,” he says.
“O. K.,” I answers. (No use to cross him, y’ savvy, it’d only ’a’ made him worse.)
When I knocked, and the widda opened the door, she seen him.
“Why, how d’ you do!” she called out, lookin’ mighty pleased. “Willie, dear, here’s Mister Bergin.”
“How d’ do,” says the sheriff.
Willie come nigh havin’ a duck-fit, he was so happy. And in about two shakes of a lamb’s tail, he was outen the house and a-climbin’ the sheriff.
Inside, I says to Mrs. Bridger, “Them chickens of yourn come, ma’am. And Hairoil Johnson’ll drive ’em down in a’ hour ’r so. The most of ’em looked fat and sassy, but one ’r two has got the pip.”