“Three handles on a side is the usual plan,” says the writer thoughtfully. “But maybe I better make it four on a side for you.... East and west or north and south?”
Old thick-skull wasn’t traveling fast enough for us now.
“I mean,” the writer explained patiently, “do you want us to dig the grave so it’ll lay east and west or north and south?”
“Grave? Whose grave?”
“Good night!” I yipped. “You sure are dumb. What did you think we were measuring you up for? —a new dress suit?”
“Go lay an egg,” says fatty.
“And here’s a nice little epitaph to go on the tombstone,” says Poppy:
Once I was fat and sassy—
The village shiek in my day—
Then I got too blamed brassy