“Maybe you never heard of me,” he goes on; “but I’m Goliah Daggett, from South Forks, Iowy.”
“Guess I’ve missed hearin’ of you,” says I.
“I suppose so,” says he, kind of disappointed, though. “The boys out there call me Gol Daggett.”
“Sounds most like a cussword,” says I.
“Yes,” says he; “that’s one reason I’m pretty well known in the State. And there may be other reasons, too.” He lets out a little chuckle at that; not loud, you know, but just as though he was swallowin’ some joke or other. It was a specialty of his, this smothered chuckle business. “Of course,” he goes on, “you needn’t tell me your name, unless——”
“It’s a fair swap,” says I. “Mine’s McCabe; Shorty for short.”
“Yes?” says he. “I knew a McCabe once. He—er—well, he——”
“Never mind,” says I. “It’s a big fam’ly, and there’s only a few of us that’s real credits to the name. But about this scheme of yours, Mr. Daggett?”
“Certainly,” says he. “It’s just this: If I could find a woman who looked a good deal like my wife, I could try the hat on her, couldn’t I? She’d do as well, eh?”
“I don’t know why not,” says I.