“I got her picked,” states Scenery. “I nominates Miss Eulalie McFee.”
“Sheriff’s daughter, eh?” laughs Hank. “She’s so danged thin that if she stood edge-ways yuh couldn’t see her, Scenery. I nominates Miss Maggie Smith, niece of ‘Doughgod’ Smith. Who seconds the motion?”
“Miss Columbus ought to be a danged sight better-looking than Maggie Smith,” states the old man. “Who ever heard of Miss Columbus with crossed eyes and freckles? I marks X at the top of my ticket for Miss Clarice Chaffin, daughter of Dug. Do I hear an agreeable voice?”
“Haw! Haw!” roars Hank. “Clarice Chaffin! This contest ain’t for no animated flag-pole, Whittaker. How’s your sentiments, Hen?”
“I leans toward Mrs. Genevieve Saunders, widder of the late ‘Slim’ Saunders. She’d fill the part.”
“It would be danged small if she didn’t,” Scenery. “She weighs at least two hundred and——”
“Scenery,” says I, “some day I’m going to hang a pebble on your neck, throw yuh into a tin cup of water and drown yuh.”
“Let’s vote on it,” suggests Hank.
“It don’t require no vote,” replies Whittaker. “If Hen wants to drown Scenery I’m——”
“I mean vote on the lady!” snaps Hank. We did. We each cast a vote for our choice, and it starts a argument that’s a humdinger, and before we leaves the council-chamber we’re mentally wallering in each other’s gore.