“My cartridges are all gone,” sez Tank.
“Mine too,” sez I.
“Can’t you use a knife, or a stone?” sez Horace, the dude.
“You can try it if you want to,” sez I; “but hanged if I will.”
He took a big stone an’ walked to the head of the cow, but his nerve gave out, an’ he threw down the stone. “What in thunder did you tie her up for, then?” sez he.
“I beg your pardon,” sez I, “but I thought perhaps she might be a little vexed with you on account o’ your shootin’ her up. She was headed your way.”
He sat down on a stone an’ looked at the cow resentful. Suddenly his face lit up. “Why don’t you milk her?” sez he. “We can live on milk for weeks.”
It’s funny how much alike hungry animals look. As Horace sat on the stone with his anxious face, his poppin’ eyes, his mussed up side-burns, an’ the water drippin’ from his mouth at thought o’ the milk, he looked so much like a setter pup I once knew that it was all I could do to hold a straight face.
“Do you know how to milk, Tank?” I sez.
“I don’t,” sez Tank; “nor I don’t know what it tastes like.”