“Is Pedro your honest-to-goodness pedigreed bull?”
“Is there actually a town named Robbinsdale?”
“Did a honeymooning couple really leave their automobile seat with you when they went to the village constable to report the theft of their car?”
It was necessary to plead guilty to nearly all the allegations heaped on me. Of course, poor Pedro is no more, he having “kicked the bucket” last July, and Gus, too, has sorta back-slid. Gus always was an in-and-outer anyway.
* * *
Gus, my old time hired man, has busted into poetry again. The old boy must be getting a whiff of the pine forests about Breezy Point Lodge. Well, here you go, Gus,—we’ll publish this one:
I am only a poor old wanderer;
I have no place to call my home;
No one to pity me, no one to cheer me,