"'I wish I was a bump
A-settin' on a log,
Baitin' m' hook with a flannel shirt
For to ketch a frog!
"And when I'd ketched m' frog,
I'd rescue of m' bait—
An' what a mess of frog's hind laigs
I wouldn't have ter ate!'"
"Come on in, Walky, and rest your voice."
"You be gittin' to be a smart young chap, Marty," proclaimed Walky, coming slowly up the steps with a package for Mrs. Day and his book to be signed.
The odor of spirits was wafted before him. Walky's face was as round and red as an August full moon.
"How-do, Janice," he said. "What d'yeou think of them fule committeemen startin' this yarn abeout Nelson Haley?"
"What do folks say about it, Walky?" cut in Mr. Day, to save his niece the trouble of answering.
"Jest erbeout what you'd think they would," the philosophical expressman said, shaking his head. "Them that's got venom under their tongues, must spit it aout if they open their lips at all. Polktown's jest erbeout divided—the gossips in one camp and the kindly talkin' people in t'other. One crowd says Mr. Haley would steal candy from a blind baby, an' t'other says his overcoat fits him so tight across't the shoulders 'cause his wings is sproutin'. Haw! haw! haw!"
"And what d' ye say, Mr. Dexter?" asked Aunt 'Mira, bluntly.
The expressman puckered his lips into a curious expression. "I tell ye what," he said. "Knowin' Mr. Haley as I do, I'm right sure he's innercent as the babe unborn. But, jefers-pelters! who could ha' done it?"