“You’re fat; you may float,” sez he; “my prize shoat did that slipped out of the wagon fordin’ the creek.”
Sez I, in the same faint axents—truly our two voices wuz as feeble as a pair of feeble cats, and weaker—sez I, “I always said you would twit me of my heft on your death-bed if the subject come up, and you had your conscientiousness.”
Sez he, “I’ve showed my love to you—I have left you everything onconditional. You can marry agin.” Sez he, “This is no time for selfishness and jealousy.”
“Marry agin!” sez I feebly; “what do I want of another pardner? Heaven knows, I don’t know!”
“Wall,” says he tenderly, for my words touched him—“you may feel different when you hain’t so sick to your stumick.”
“Yes,” sez I, “and you may, too!”
He had never made a will before that left me onhampered, and I felt that when his legs wuz firmer under him, and his stumick and head wuz steadier, that he, too, might undergo a change.
And he did.
It wuz a bright, calm day. He felt well, and I see him the next mornin’ a furtively tearin’ up that will and a-strewin’ the torn bits out of the port-hole winder.
As he did so his hands got entangled in a cord I’d made out of weltin’ cord.