“I say, reb, when did you shave last?” demanded Somers, with something as near akin to a laugh as he could manufacture for the occasion.
“’Fore you was born, I reckon, Yank,” replied the rebel; “and I sha‘n’t shave ag’in till after you’re dead. But I reckon I sha‘n’t hev ter wait long nuther.”
“I suppose you don’t know what a comb is for, do you?” continued Somers, who was, however, thinking of some method by which he might get out of this scrape.
“I reckon I’ve heerd about such things; but Joe Bagbone ain’t a woman, and don’t waste his time no such way. I say, stranger, you’ve got about three minutes more to live.”
“How long?”
“Three minutes, stranger, I’ve sat here by them clothes, like a dog at a ’possum’s nest, all the arternoon. Now I’ve treed the critter, and I’m gwine to shoot him.”
“That’s so, stranger.”
“Do you usually shoot any man you happen to meet in the woods?”
“Well, I don’t reckon we do, every man; but some on ’em we does. I calkilate you got on Tom Myers’s clothes now, and yer shot the man ’fore you took the rags.”