VI
TEN MINUTES OF ETERNITY
A REVOLVER, A RATTLER AND THE BOWL OF A PIPE
The warm June sunshine flooded the prairie with light. A little frisky breeze made silky noises in the grasses. From the other end of the plowed ground came the clank of harness and the thud of hoof-beats, as the four-horse team drew the sulky-plow, squeaking and complaining.
The monotonous work and soft air acted on the driver like a sleeping potion, and he nodded and drowsed on the seat, with the stem of a pipe clenched between his teeth.
This man, Tommy, was for ever losing the bowl of his pipe, and it was a great treat for me, a boy of fourteen, to tell him of the loss and hear him inveigh against the offending member with all the wealth of his Irish-Western vocabulary. Tommy was full of strange oaths and more bearded than any of his pards.
I giggled in anticipation as the plow drew near—sure enough! The bowl was gone.
“Tommy!” I hailed.
“Hay-oh! lad!” said he, snapping his eyes open. “Whoa, there!—have yer come out with ther grub call?”
“No, Tommy—but the bowl of your pipe is gone.”
“What, again?” and he removed the stem, regarding it sideways. “Now, ther curses of the Mormon gods be on that bowl!” and from that beginning followed an oration, lurid and marvelous.