“Whew! Who would have believed it? I’m devilish glad of it though, anyhow.”
Down, as fast as his legs (and they are long ones,) can carry him, stalks the mischief-maker to Wiggins’ tavern.
“I say, Wiggins, how goes the morning with you? Had many customers at the bar yet, eh!”
“Well, not a great many, Squire! It’s rather airley yet.”
“So it is. You’ve heard the news this morning, doubtless, Wiggins?”
“News! no. What news, Squire?”
“Why, John P.’s infernal great yowling dog has been shot!”
“Shot—dog—John P. Why, you don’t say so, squire!”
“No. I don’t say so, but Nate Hemstitch does, and further more he says who shot him.”
“The deuce he does. Who was it?”