“B’gee!” he gasped. “Fellows—the greatest—b’gee!—the greatest—news of the century! Hooray!”
His friends gazed at him in surprise and curiosity.
“What’s the matter?” demanded Mark.
“Yes, what’s up?” chimed in Texas, his fingers beginning to twitch at the prospects of “fun.” “Anybody to lick? Any fights? Any——”
“It’s Bull Harris!” panted Dewey. “B’gee!—it’s the chance of a lifetime!”
“Whoop!” roared Texas. “Out with it. Doggone his boots, I’m jes’ a layin’ fo’ another whack at that air ole yearlin’. Whoop!”
If it had been Parson Stanard who had gotten hold of that news which Dewey was breathlessly trying to tell, he would have kept the crowd upon the tenderhooks of expectation while he led up to the subject with sequipedalian perorations and scholarly circumlocutions. But the true story-teller’s instinct was not in Dewey; he was anxious to be “out with it.” The secret was too good a one to keep and the only reason he delayed for even a moment was that he was trying to regain his vocal powers, a process which was very much impeded by the number of “b’gees!” he felt duty bound to work in during the time.
“B’gee!” he gasped, “it’s the greatest thing out. Bull’s going to give a party.”
“A party!”
“Yes—b’gee! It seems somebody’s sent him a box of eatables from home. He got it on the sly and none of the authorities know anything about it. Reminds me of a story I once heard, about——”