“If I ever has uh hand in it, Doc, it shore will,” sez Magpie. “Better go on back to bed.”
Th’ doc ambles back to his bed, and we recovers Magpie’s blanket. It jist missed uh watery grave.
“Gosh,” sez Magpie. “Missed with both barrels at ninety feet. Let’s go over in th’ brush and sleep. Mebby them jacks will wail ag’in, and yuh can’t expect uh feller to miss every time with uh scatter-gun.”
“Was it uh female?” asks uh husky voice behind us, and there stands th’ perfessor in uh white nightie, on one foot, while he industriously picks cactus out of th’ other. He looks like th’ ghost of some hy-iu white crane.
“What you heard, Perfessor,” sez Magpie, “was uh fool! Better git back to bed before he mistakes yuh fer uh white owl.”
“Yeaus. Exactly,” agrees th’ ol’ coot, and he limps back. Magpie is uh bit damp, but th’ night is warm, so he states that he’d rather sleep thataway than to take uh chance on goin’ near th’ cabin.
We sleeps some late th’ next mornin’, and th’ first thing we hears is that blamed shotgun. Somewhere up th’ gulch th’ doc is tearin’ holes in th’ solitude. We ambles up to th’ cabin, and finds Mrs. Perfessor settin’ on th’ steps. Honest to grandma, she’s uh sight. That person wa’n’t no beautiful vi’let last night, but this mornin’ she don’t qualify a-tall.
“Klahowya,” sez Magpie. “Did yuh sleep well, ma’am?”
“Oh, there you are,” sez she, ignorin’ Magpie’s salutation, and lookin’ at me. “When do I get some hot water?”
“Drink or laundry?” I asks.