“Now, Slim, it’s up to you,” said Ned Wayland. “It’s a long time since we’ve had one of your truthful stories.”
“A story from Slim,” went up the chorus, as all that could crowded around.
But Slim assumed an air of profoundest gloom.
“Nothing doing,” he said, shaking his head with a decision that the twinkle in his eyes belied. “You fellows wouldn’t believe me anyway.
“Look at the last one I told you,” he went on, with an aggrieved air, “about the fellows that used to catch crabs with their toes as they sat on the end of the dock. Didn’t you fellows as much as call me a–er–fabricator? Even when I explained that they had hardened their toes by soaking them in alum, so that they wouldn’t feel the bites? Even when I offered to show you one of the crabs that they caught?”
He wagged his head sadly, as one who was deeply pained by the appalling amount of unbelief to be met with in the world.
“Perhaps we did you a great injustice, Slim,” said Fred with a mock air of penitence.
“I’m willing to apologize and never do it again,” chimed in Melvin.
“And I’ll go still further and agree to believe your next story before you tell it,” promised Tom.
“Now that sounds more like it,” said Slim, throwing off his gloom. “I’m always ready to add to the slight store of knowledge that you lowbrows have in stock, but you must admit that it’s rather discouraging to see that cold, hard look in your eyes when I’m doing my best to give you the exact facts.”