“Fight her! Fight her clear to the high, consolidated supreme court aggregation of the United States, or whatever they call it!” roared Plug Ivory.
“Nobody has ever beat her yet, except Dellybunko, and we ain’t in his class,” sighed Avery, despondently.
“You don’t think, do you, that I’m going to lap my thumb and finger and peel her off ten thousand dollars?”
“Why don’t you and she get married and we’ll all live here, happy, hereafter?” wistfully suggested Avery. “If it was in a book it would end off like that—sure pop.”
“This ain’t no book,” replied Buck, elbows on his knees, eyes moodily on the dusty planks.
“So you’re bound to go to court?”
“Low court—high court—clear to the ridgepole—clear to the cupoly, and then I’ll shin the weather vane with the star spangled banner of justice between my teeth.”
“I heard a breach of promise trial once,” related Avery, half closing his eyes in reminiscence, “and it was the funniest thing I ever listened to. ‘Twas twenty years ago, and I’ll bet that the people down there laugh yet when they see that fellow walk along the street. Them letters he wrote was certainly the squashiest—why, every one of them seemed to woggle like a tumbler of jelly—sweet and sloppy, as you might say! It being so long ago, when you was having your spell, I don’t suppose you remember just what you wrote to her, do you?”
Avery still gazed at the same knothole, but a hot flush was crawling up from under his collar. He took off his plug hat and scuffed his wrist across his steaming forehead.
“I remember that he called her ‘Ittikins, Pittikins, Popsy-sweet.’ Thought I’d die laughing at that trial! Did you sling in any names like that, Ivory? You being so prominent now and settled down and having money in the bank, them kind of names, if you wrote mushy like that, will certainly tickle folks something tremendous.”