“No.”
“I guess about three twenty-five,” said a third.
“No.”
Then all together demanded: “Well, how much did he weigh?”
“Dunno. Hain’t weighed him yet.”
Other men kept dropping in and hugging the stove, for the day was cold and snowy outside. In came Cy Hopkins, wrapped in a big overcoat, yet almost frozen to death; but there wasn’t room enough around that stove to warm his little finger.
But he didn’t get mad about it; he just said to Bill Stebbins who kept the stove: “Bill, got any raw oysters?”
“Yes, Cy.”
“Well, just open a dozen and feed ’em to my hoss.”