Chapter Twenty Five.
A Queer Conversation.
The surprise, with the exertion I had made in raising myself, overcame me, and I fell back in a swoon.
It was but a momentary dizziness, and in a short while I was again conscious.
Meanwhile, the two men had approached, and having applied something cold to my temples, stood near me conversing: I heard every word.
“Durn the weemen!” (I recognised Rube’s voice); “thur allers a gittin a fellur into some scrape. Hyur’s a putty pickle to be in, an all through a gurl. Durn the weemen! sez I.”
“We–ell,” drawlingly responded Garey, “pre-haps he loves the gal. They sez she’s mighty hansum. Love’s a strong feelin, Rube.”
Although I had my eyes partially open, I could not see Rube, as he was standing behind the suspended robe; but a gurgling, clucking sound—somewhat like that made in pouring water from a bottle—reached my ears, and told me what effect Garey’s remark had produced upon his companion.