CHAPTER XXV
LAFFIN'-GAS
"Hello, Lost Tribes!" Abner accosted. "What's the matter? Not sick, are ye?"
"Do I look sick?" Zebedee asked, as he took his pipe from his mouth, and glared at his neighbor.
"Well, I can't altogether say that ye have the appearance of dyin'," Abner replied, as he sat down by Zeb's side on the workshop steps. "But ye don't look as spry as a skippin' lamb, an' ye'r face ain't as bright as a shiny mug. What's wrong?"
"Nuthin'."
"H'm, so that's it, eh? It's no wonder ye look glum. Nuthin' wrong! Everythin' runnin' as smooth as molasses in summer time. That's sartinly too bad. Nuthin wrong! What's the nuthin', Zeb?"
"You," was the unexpected reply.
"Me!" Abner exclaimed in astonishment.
"Sure. You're the nuthin', an' it's you that's wrong."