"Fust thing old Backslid, what learned me de po'teh bizness, said to do was to close up de vegetable."
This he proceeded to do. He turned and entered the car. For a second time he slid past blue-coated authority, in the form of a United States Deputy Marshal who was temporarily chaperoning the departing aliens.
"Hold on, there: where you headed for?"
"I's de poteh what takes care ob de Noble Fezant boys in de blue pants."
The deputy marshal temporarily on guard had a fixed official rule of conduct: never take a chance. The Wildcat's words sounded crazy enough to entitle him to a membership card in the Traveling Nut Club.
"Git in that car and sit down before I blow your head off! Where's your handcuffs?"
"Cap'n, how come? Handcuffs seems so confidential."
Here, for some reason unknown to the Wildcat, was the hand of the law. Inside of his parade-leading Prince Albert the Wildcat shivered and shrunk three sizes. His brow wrinkled in perplexity beneath the velvet hat, and the bright yellow plumes thereon dropped in sudden melancholy.
"Lady Luck, whah at is you?"
"Mumblin' to himself and wearing the craziest rig in the car—good thing I rounded up that bird."