"You shouldn't oughter have done that," replied the P.O. as if he were talking to an idiot, "I suppose you've been shoveling her down hill all day?"
I admitted that I had.
"You see," I added engagingly, "I began with trying to shovel her up hill, but the old stuff kept on rolling down on me, so I drew the natural conclusion that I'd better shovel her down hill. It seemed more reasonable and—"
"Easier," suggested the P.O.
"Yes," I agreed.
There was a faraway expression in his eyes when he next spoke. "I'd recommend you for an ineptitude discharge," he said, "if it wasn't for the fact that I have more consideration for the civilian population. I'd gladly put you in the brig for life if I could feel sure you wouldn't injure it in some way. The only thing left for me to do is to make you promise that you'll keep away from our coal pile and swear never to lay violent hands on it again. You'll spoil it."
I gazed up at the monumental mass of coal rearing itself like a dark-town Matterhorn above my head and swore fervently never to molest it again.
"Go back to your outfit and get washed and tell your P.O. for me that you can't come here no more, and," he added, as I was about to depart, "take that unusual looking bit of animal life with you—it's all wrong. Police his body or he'll ruin some of your pals' white pants and they wouldn't like that at all."
I feared they wouldn't.
"Yes, sir," I replied in a crumpled voice, "Much obliged, sir."