“Falk started to make some objections, but old Rip raised the rifle, and Falk, with a wild, despairing cuss, up-ended himself. He was a big man, as I’ve told you, and when he keeled over he come down so hard it jarred the earth.
“‘Wakstashonee!’ cries Rip, ‘that worst I ever see! Got to do better, or I shoot anyhow!’
“So up goes Falk, and down he comes, and up he goes and down he comes, in all kinds of shapes and styles till Steve and me, we had to jam our handkerchers in our mouths for fear we’d snort out loud and spoil the game.
“‘Holy sufferin’!’ says Steve, ‘but ain’t he just everlastingly run up against the worst of it this heat! We couldn’t have wished no better if we tried, Jay!’
“Well, I should say that there wasn’t a piece as big as a quarter on Falk that wasn’t black and blue when at last he seemed to get the knack of it, and held himself up in a wobbly sort of way.
“‘There,’ says Rip, ‘that’s more like business. Just keep feet still—I going to shoot heels off boots.’
“Falk hollered murder.
“Old Rip shook his head. ‘You make such noise I get rattled and shoot hole through foot,’ he complained. Falk shut up like a clam.
“‘Here we go fresh!’ says Rip. ‘Now don’t move feet.’
“Blam! And the right heel zipped into space. Blim! And away went the left one.