“When I see him cuttin’ up that way, I commence getting mad, too, an’ my knees they begin to shake, sorter like I had er chill, an’ skeered—no, Sir—an’ I s’posed thar was gwine to be thar devil to pay, I give you my word. I ain’t been so wrathy before once since, and that was t’other day when that Cain, the blacksmith, drunk up my last bottle of ‘bullface;’ and when I tacked him ’bout it, sed he thought it was milk.
“But that ein’t neither here, nor thar. As I was a sayin’, Arch he cussed at me, an’ I cussed at him, an’ the fellers what was along of me sed I beat him all holler. Torectly I begin to get tired of jawin’ away so much, and sez I:
“ ‘Arch, what’s the use of makin’ such er all-fired rackit ’bout nothin’. S’pose we make it up?’
“ ‘Good as wheat,’ sez he.
“ ‘Well,’ sez I, ‘give us your paw,’ sez I, ‘but,’ sez I, ‘thar’s one thing you sed, what sorter sticks in my craw yet, an’ if you don’t pollogize, I’ll wallop you for it right now.’
“ ‘What does you mean?’ sez he.
“Sez I, ‘Didn’t you sed one day that my preachin’ warn’t nothin’ but loud hollerin’?’
“ ‘Yes,’ sez he, ‘but didn’t you send me word one time that you b’lieved I was skeered of you, an’ the fust chance you got you’d take the starch out’n me, as sure as er gun.’
“Sez I, ‘Yes, but what does that signify?’
“ ‘Well,’ sez he, ‘ef you’ll take back what you sed, I’ll take back what I sed.’