"Our sthyle! Och, murther, hear him!" groaned Carnes, in a stage aside.
"His manners ain't our style, nuther," went on Long, lugubriously. "We always has a bow and a smile fur all, rich an poor alike, exceptin' now and then a no count person what there's no need uv wastin' politeness on. He goes along head up, independenter nor Fouth o' July. He don't make no distincshun between folks an' folks, like a man orter. I've seen him bow jist the same bow to old Granny Sanders, as lives down at the poor farm, and to Parson Radcliffe, our biggest preachin' gun. Now, that's no way fer a man ter do as wants ter live happy in Trafton; it ain't our way."
A mighty groan from Barney.
"He's got a practice, though," went on Jim, utterly ignoring the apparent misery of his would-be tormentor. "Somehow he manages to cure folks as some of our old doctors can't. I reckon a change o' physic's good fer folks, same's a change o' diet—"
"Or a clane shirt," broke in Carnes, with an insinuating glance in the direction of Jim's rather dingy linen.
"Eggsackly," retorted Long, turning back his cuffs with great care and glancing menacingly at his enemy—"er a thrashin'."
"Gentlemen," I interposed, "let us have peace. And tell me, Jim, where may we find your model Traftonite, your hero of the curls, moustaches, dainty hands, and discriminating politeness? I have not seen him."
"Whar?" retorted Long, in an aggrieved tone, "look here, boss, you don't think I ever mean anythin' personal by my remarks? I'd sworn it were all that way when you come ter notice. The average Traftonite's the sleekest, pertiest chap on earth. We wuz born so."