“You’ve got it, Pole Cat. What yuh going to do with it?”
He unrolls that bundle and produces a yaller stove-pipe hat, dented and moth-eaten, and an old rusty sword. He balances that old hat on his ball-shaped head, and runs the sword along the palm of his left hand.
“Do I qualify, Mister Peck?” he asks.
“For certain places, Pole Cat. What’s the idea?”
“Chuck gives me these habiliments and tells me that I’ll have to get your permission to lead the pe-rade tomorrow. I admires the chance so much that I ain’t lost no time in coming. Do I get it?”
“Pole Cat,” says I, solemn-like, “you probably will. Let your judgment be your guiding star.”
“Thanks, Henry. I bids yuh good afternoon.”
“Better make it farewell,” says I.
“Loco crop must be flourishing up here,” observes Calamity. “Some smells worse than others, Henry.”
“This one is named after his associates,” says I, and just then somebody rides up to the door and I hears Harelip Hansen’s voice. “Get behind the bunk!” I hisses at Calamity. “If Harelip sees you up here he never will leave.”