Uncle Abe, the Baboon, and the Tiger.
Abe Pike was one of those men who would walk ten miles to set a trap without a murmur, while he thought himself badly used if he were called upon to hoe a row in the mealie field. So when, for the third time within one week, a calf was killed by a tiger, and our attempts to shoot, poison, or trap the thief had failed, I rode over to Uncle Abe’s to secure his aid.
“I can’t do it,” he said, when I had stated my business.
“Too busy?”
“No; ’taint that, sonny, ’taint that—tho’ there’s a powerful heap o’ work to do on that shed.”
“I’ll put in a couple of days and help you finish it right off, as soon as the tiger is laid by the heels.”
“Thank ye kindly; but I’ve got to finish that there shed offun my own bat. It’s a job that wants doin’ keerfly.”
“Well, Uncle, I’ll plough up your old land by the hoek, and put in two muids of corn. How will that do?”
“’Twont do, my lad; that land’s full o’ charlock.”
“Then, Uncle, the day you show me the dead body of that tiger, the red heifer with the white patch on the hump is yours.”