The rattle of the pile of wheels upon which the G. A. R. Man was sitting announced that the veteran was getting restless and was preparing for action. For a long time he had been smoking in silence, listening to the strange tales of the strange man from Raccoon Valley. Now he spoke.
“If your story is true then that was an awful thing.” He seemed to be weighing each word. “Still, it wasn’t so awful ez a thing that happened to me durin’ the war.”
“There ye are agin,” cried the Loafer. “Can’t a man tell a story ’thout you tryin’ to go him one better? I don’t believe ye was in the war anyway.”
“Don’t I git a pension?” The veteran closed one eye and stuck out his lower jaw threateningly.
“That ain’t no sign,” ventured the Miller from the carpenter bench.
“Well, what fer a sign does you unsez want?” roared the G. A. R. Man. “Does you expect a felly to go th’oo life carryin’ a musket? Ef ye does——”
“See here,” said the Blacksmith, “youse fellys is gittin’ that mule all excited. Ef you’re goin’ to quarrel you’d better go outside where there’s lots o’ room fer ye to run away in.”
“Now—now—now!” said the Dunkard, wagging the horse-tail at the company. “Don’t git fightin’. Ef he knows anything awfuller then that hoop-snake wenture let him out with it.”
“I do,” said the veteran. “But I don’t perpose to hev it drug outen me fer you uns to hoot at.”