“I minds my own business,” snorts Mighty. “Go ahead and talk, and I’ll listen if it chokes me.”
Magpie sets on Mighty’s floatin’ ribs, and tells him our troubles.
“But my bear ain’t no fe-male and I ain’t got no cub,” protests Mighty. “Anyway, ol’ Abe is sick. I reckon he’s gittin’ too blamed ol’. Seems like he don’t harbor nothin’ but uh bellyache, Magpie. I been dopin’ th’ ol’ sinner fer weeks to keep him on his feet. Dog-gone, he’s th’ only friend I got left. I tries to give him uh dose uh castor ile yesterday, and he tore my shirt off and swallers th’ whole bottle. I don’t reckon it’ll do him any good thataway do you?”
“If yuh knowed jist what part uh his anatomy it’s reposin’ in yuh might kick him and loosen th’ cork,” I suggests, but Mighty shakes his head.
“It can’t be done, Ike. Th’ cork was broke off short.”
“Where is he now?” asks Magpie, risin’ from Mighty’s carcass, and settin’ on th’ bunk.
Mighty rubs th’ creases out of his skin, and rolls uh smoke.
“He’s up on th’ hill back uh my stable, I reckon. Danged ol’ toothless walloper’s done formed uh friendship with uh badger. Can yuh beat it? Them two sets up there on uh rock in th’ sun and snoozes all day.”
“Heavenly dove!” whoops Magpie, grab-bin’ Mighty by th’ wishbone. “Do yuh suppose they’re up there now?”
“I reckon,” gasps Mighty. “Leggo my neck, dog-gone yuh. What’s there to git excited about?”