Jagg bleated five times in rapid succession and plunged out into the fresh air, then turned toward the spring where we got our drinking water and took off the brakes. Before any one could prevent him, he had taken a bath in the spring and emerged dripping wet, with his hat still on.
Ab’s disgust knew no bounds. “Bilin’ the water won’t help it none now,” he said. “Reckon we’ll have to drink bug juice.” He drew a flask from his pocket and took a long draught, smacking his lips with evident enjoyment.
Here Jagg did his Skootaway stunt, and Ab blinked. There was not even a glimmer of white in the air—one merely had the impression that something had gone by.
“Say, pardner,” said Ab, brokenly, “tell me the truth. Have I got ’em, or was there a Goat with a plug hat on settin’ here a minute ago?”
“The Goat and the hat were both here,” I assured him, and he sighed in relief. “I suppose,” he continued, meditatively, “that we both orter take the pledge.”
Jagg returned in time for breakfast and sat opposite us. The dislike between him and Ab speedily ripened into hate, and I could see that a catastrophe was due before long, but I made no allusion to it.
“What be you goin’ to call the beast?” asked Ab.
“Haven’t thought about it,” I returned, shortly.
“I suppose he wouldn’t need to be called,” remarked Ab. “He seems to be here most of the time.”
I smiled as pleasantly as could be expected under the circumstances, and Ab went on with his part of the sketch. “Too bad he ain’t a Sheep.”