“I called this morning, mom, to see if I couldn't sell you a feller.”
“Sell me a feller!” I jest made out to say, for I wus fairly paralyzed by his impudence. “Sell me a feller!”
“Yes: I have got some of the best kinds they make, and I didn't know but I could sell you one.”
Sez I, gettin' my tongue back, “Buy a feller! you ask me, at my age, and with my respectability, and after carryin' round such principles as I have been carryin' round for years and years, you ask me to buy a feller!”
“Yes: I didn't know but you would want one. I have got the best kind there is made.”
“I'll let you know, young man,” says I, “I'll let you know that I have got a feller of my own, as good a one as was ever made, one I have had for 20 years and over.”
“Wall, mom,” says he, with that stiddy, determined way of hisen, “a feller that you have had for 20 years must be out of gear by this time.”
“Out of gear!” says I, speakin' up sharp. “You will be out of gear yourself, young man, if I hear any more such talk out of your head.”
“I hope you will excuse me, mom,” says he, in that patient way of hisen. “It hain't my way to run down anybody's else's fellers.”
“Wall, I guess you hadn't better try it again in this house,” says I warmly. “I guess it won't be very healthy for you.”