“No, not none of mine,” said Sol.
“Then whose?” she inquired impatiently.
“Isom’s,” said he.
“You don’t mean my Joe?” she asked slowly, a shadow of pain drawing her face.
“I mean Isom,” said Sol.
“Isom?” said she, relieved. “Why didn’t Joe come after me?” Before Sol could adjust his program to meet this unexpected exigency, she demanded: “Well, what’s the matter with Isom?”
“Dead,” said Sol, dropping his voice impressively.
“You don’t mean–well, shades of mercy, Isom dead! What was it–cholera-morbus?”
“Killed,” said Sol; “shot down with his own gun and killed as dead as a dornix.”
“His own gun! Well, sakes–who done it?”