“I’m small but I’m Gawd A’mighty Jones!” That’s how he gits th’ cognomen.
He’s livin’ up in uh li’l cabin at th’ forks of Plenty Stone crick, and he ain’t noways friendly nor confidential. He’s plumb afraid that somebody will jump his alleged copper claim, which don’t assay enough per ton to plate uh twenty-two cartridge shell.
“She’s goin’ to work out to uh gnat’s eyebrow, Ike,” states Magpie when I don’t seem uh heap concerned over his former joyful declaration.
“Yuh might tell uh man yore troubles,” sez I.
Magpie sets up in his blankets and rolls uh cigaret.
“Yessir,” sez he, after th’ smoke is goin’, “that’s th’ solution—partly. Ike, we could use Mighty Jones’s bear fer this here scientific experiment.”
“Uh-huh,” I agrees. “We shore could, only fer several reasons. Mighty’s animile happens to be uh brown bear and, bein’ as its name is Abe, it don’t stand to reason that its got any maternal instinct, much less uh cub. And what is uh heap more to th’ point, Magpie: Mighty would perforate anybody what bothered that brute. If Mighty had about twice as much sense as he’s got he’d be half-witted, and I argues that uh fool and uh shotgun is dangerous. Them’s my sentiments, Magpie. Th’ whole thing is crazy. Yore all crazy, Magpie. Th’ perfessor is loco, th’ doc is likewise afflicted and Mrs. Perfessor is showin’ symptoms. You been crazy fer years and years, Magpie, and I’m gittin’ suspicious uh myself. Let’s put some cyanide in their coffee in th’ morning, and then you and me will go down in Death Valley and dig fer coconuts, Magpie. And besides we ain’t got no cub fer Abie.”
“Objextions all overruled, Ike. In th’ first place, Perfessor Phinney nor any of them wouldn’t know uh brown bear from uh grizzly, and in th’ second place, we’ll go down cautious like and rent Mighty’s bear.”
“What’ll we do fer uh cub?”
“——!” snorts Magpie. “We’re sharin’ fifty-fifty in this here ain’t we? Well, I done furnished my part. I got th’ mother grizzly didn’t I? Well, you git th’ cub. Sabe?”