“No, I haven’t,” sez he; “but I saved up the stuff I reaped off o’ ol’ man Dort, and I reckon I could make some.”
“The very thing!” sez I. “You fix up a rig that’ll make you look to be a hundred years old; and we’ll hunt up clothes for ya. All you’ll have to do will be to guide a green Eastener out to shoot a bear, and we’ll have the bear and everything ready for ya.”
“No, ya don’t,” sez Eugene. “I don’t fool around no bears.”
“I thought you was tired o’ life,” sez Spider.
“Well, I’m not so tired of it that I’m willin’ to have it squeezed out o’ me by a bear,” sez Eugene.
“This won’t be a real bear,” sez I; “and anyhow, they’ll be a ravine between you and it. You claimed once to be a show actor, and all you’ll have to do will be to pertend ’at you’re actin’.”
“I once was a genuwine amateur actor,” sez Eugene, “and if you’ll make it clear to me that there ain’t no danger, I’ll take the job.”
Then I explained just what he had to do; and after this me an’ Spider, who was now keen for the outcome, went around to dicker with ol’ man Dort. He was bumpin’ around among the clouds, so we didn’t have any trouble in buyin’ back Eugene’s stuff on time. When I asked him what he’d charge for Columbus, the woodchuck, he gave a snort, and said he’d throw him in for good measure; so I told him to just keep him out o’ sight for a few days, and we started back to Eugene’s.
“What do you want with that dog-gone woodchuck?” asked Spider.
“I want him to take the part of a grizzly bear,” sez I.