“‘Liver,’ says I, ‘is a ticklish business.’
“‘’Lowin’ a man didn’t overeat,’ says he, ‘think he could spurt along for a spell on his liver?’
“‘That’s good,’ says he; ‘for I’m countin’ a deal on she.’
“‘Never you fear,’ says I. ‘She’ll stand you.’
“‘Think she will?’ says he, jus’ like a child. ‘Maybe, then,’ says he, ‘with my own labor, Tumm, I’ll buy my own grave at last!’
“But the season bore hard on the ol’ man, an’ when I balanced un up in the fall o’ the year, the twelve thirty he’d been t’ leeward o’ the twenty-three twenty-five Tom Neverbudge wanted for the plot where the two little graves lay side by side had growed t’ fifteen ninety-three.
“‘Jus’ where I was nine year ago,’ says he, ‘lackin’ thirty-four cents.’
“‘Never you fear,’ says I
“‘My God! Tumm,’ says he, ‘I got t’ do better nex’ season.’”