We all marched around to the general store, an’ ol’ man Dort pounded on the cage. When Ben Butler sat up an’ looked around to see what was up, the ol’ man waved his hand at him, looked down at Eugene, an’ sez: “Well?” He said it just like that: “Wu-el?”
Ben Butler was rollin’ fat, an’ he certainly did look like some squirrel to us; but Eugene merely glanced at him, an’ sez: “Hum, what we call a dwarf red squirrel, up in Nova Scotia. They have tails, though, up there.”
The ol’ man spluttered till we had to pound him on the back. “Dwarf?” he chokes out. “Dwarf! You produce a squirrel to match him, will ya, or else you pack up your truck an’ move on. I don’t intend to have no—”
“See here, ol’ man,” sez Eugene, pointin’ a finger at him the same as if he’d been a naughty child. “A short-tailed grizzly ground-squirrel is from two to four times as big as this one, so if you want to sidestep the bet, you can do it; but if you want to have some show for your money, I bet you fifty to ten that I can get a squirrel three times as big as this one. I own up that for its kind, this squirrel is of fair, average growth; but—”
“I’ll take that bet!” yelled the old man. “We’ll put up our money with Ike Spargle this minute; but I don’t want your odds. I’ll bet you even money.”
Eugene shook his head as if he pitied the ol’ man, an’ he sez, “Haven’t you never travelled none, or seen a zoological garden?”
“Yes, I’ve travelled some, an’ I’ve seen all kinds o’ gardens,” flares back the ol’ man; “but what I want now is to fix up this bet.”
“Who’ll be the judges?” sez Eugene.
“I don’t care a snap. Any man who can see through the holes in a ladder’ll be able to decide between the claims o’ two squirrels. Ike Spargle an’ Bill Thompson can be the judges.”
“There has to be three,” sez Eugene. “We’ll have Dan Stedman be the other.”