He laughed. "Yes, I did," he says. "I wrote you that I did. I knew I should win that bet. You couldn't stay idle to save your soul."
"There was another bet, too, if you recollect. A bet with a five-year limit on it. The limit won't be up till next fall, so here I am—and here's the other hat."
I set the leather box on the table. He stared at it and then at me.
"What do you mean?" he says, slow. "I don't remember.... Why, yes—I do! You don't mean to tell me that you're—"
"That's the hat, ain't it?" I cut in. "You're a man of judgment, Mr. Pike, and any time you want to set up professionally as a prophet I'd like to take stock in the company."
He was beginnin' to smile.
"Then—" says he—"Why, then this must be—"
I cut in and stopped him.
"Hold on," says I. "Hold on! I'm prouder to be able to say it than I ever was of anything else in this world, and I sha'n't let you say it fust. Mr. Pike, let me introduce you to my wife—Mrs. Zebulon Snow."
About half an hour afterwards he found time to look at the hat.