After takin’ a drink they went on, wonderin’ what on yearth had cum of the dogs. Next thing they cum to was a terrible muddy branch. After pullin’ through the briers and gettin’ on tother side, they tuck another drink, and after gwine a little ways they cum to another branch, and a little further they cum to another fence—a monstrous high one this time.
“Whar upon yearth is we got to, Culpepper?” ses Bill, “I never seed sich a heap of branches and fences in these parts.”
“Why,” ses Tom, “it’s all old Sturlin’s doins—you know he’s always bildin’ fences and making infernal improvements, as he calls ’em. But never mind, we’s through them now.”
“Guess we is,” ses Bill; “here’s the all-firedest tall fence yet.”
Shure enuff, thar they was right agin another fence. By this time, they begun to be considerable tired and limber in the gints, and it was sich a terrible high fence!—Tom drapped the last piece of the torch, and thar they was in the dark.
“Now you is done it,” ses Bill.
Tom know’d he had, but he thought it was no use to grieve over spilled milk, so ses he, “Never mind, old hoss, cum a-head, and I’ll take you out,” and the next minit kerslash he went into the water.
Bill hung on to the fence with both hands, like he thought it was slewin’ round to throw him off.
“Hellow, Tom!” ses he, “whar in the world is you got to?”
“Here I is,” ses Tom, spoutin’ the water out of his mouth, and coffin’ like he’d swallowed something. “Look out, thar’s another branch here.”