Then said Corny Stillwell: “I’ll lug those monkeys to the Lily. That was hot talk Doc gave me! It’s one thing to call myself a vagabond and another to have him say so. I’m for the woods, where I belong, with the rest of the brainless creatures!”
“Pshaw! He didn’t mean that. You won’t be locked up. The monkeys are ours, the blame is ours, don’t be afraid!” counselled Jim, with his hand upon his host’s shoulder.
But the other shook it off, indignantly. “Afraid? Afraid! I? Why that is a joke, indeed!” and with that, his gun upon his back, the cage in his hand, he marched away.
CHAPTER XII.
UNDER THE PERSIMMON TREE.
Saint Augustine cocked his pretty head on one side and looked roguishly up into Jim Barlow’s face.
“Be you goin’ to stay to my house all your life? ’Cause if you be I know somethin’.”
“I hope you do. But, I say, let that celery alone. What’s the fun of pulling things up that way?”