Of course I tackled him right away, and first lining him up in the tap-room of the tavern, asked what news there might be up in his section, for it was a warm corner of the State, and could usually be depended on for some lively incidents during the week.
His answer rather disappointed me at first.
"They ain't nothin' doin' up our way," he said, "'cause we're all too busy with our crops to bother about anything else. All quiet in our neighborhood for sartin."
"Pretty good crops this year?" I inquired.
"Bully," says he. "I ought to be in my field this minute, an' I would be if I hadn't come to town to see the coroner."
"The coroner?" I began to feel interested, because you know there's only one kind of harvest that needs a coroner.
"Yep. Want him to hold an inquest on a couple of fellers down in our neighborhood."
"Inquest? Was it an accident?"
"Nope. Zeke Burke did it a-puppus. Plugged George Rambo and his boy Bill with a pistol. Got to have an inquest."