“I shot a trapped tiger once,” said Long Jim, “that was caught only by his toe. Yes, sir, by his toe! and the danged crittur jes’ lay there and took the bullet ’thout even standing up. He jes’ hissed like a room full o’ kettles.”
“Ever been caught in a trap?” asked Abe quietly.
“I ain’t had any occasion to,” said Jim severely.
“Well, I have!”
“Gwine after anybody’s pumpkins?” asked Amos, thinking this was a good opportunity to work in his belated retort.
“Some folk’s talk,” said Abe slowly, “is like burrs—never wanted and allus spoilin’ good material, with this difference on the side of the burr-weed—that you can root up the weed when you find it.”
“It would take a better man than you to dig me up,” said Amos, shaking himself.
“We ain’t discussin’ weeds,” said Abe, looking his lanky opponent up and down; “we’re discussin’ the points o’ traps—especially teeth. I bin caught, an’ that’s why I’m sot against teeth.”
“When did it happen, Abe?”
“Well, I’ll tell you. You know ole Hill’s garden, which held more different kinds o’ fruit-trees than I have seed in the whole country. There were a thick quince hedge down one side, and the wild pigs had made a path through it big enough to let a stoopin’ man through. Well, I were going short cut to the house one night, and I remembered this yer pig-track.”