We’re busy pannin’ out some dirt about an hour later when we hears an uproar back at th’ cabin.
“Now, somebody has gone and raised ——” snorts Magpie. “Them is natcherally quiet folks, Ike, and not given to loud nor unseemly noises, so there must be uh good reason. Mebby that danged badger’s got away.”
“More likely th’ doc’s hit somethin’,” I orates. “Mebby he mistakes th’ perfessor’s wife fer uh tin can. She’s built thataway.”
We hikes back to camp and finds things considerable disturbed. Th’ doc is settin’ on th’ steps of th’ cabin, wearin’ uh injured expression and uh torn shirt. Mrs. Perfessor is limpin’ around th’ place like uh hound pup cuttin’ circles to find uh place to lay down. Perfessor Phinney is still settin’ there studyin’ th’ badger, which seems considerable riled over somethin’.
“What’s th’ trouble?” asks Magpie.
“Maternal instinct!” snorts th’ doc.
“Nothing to get excited about,” wheezes th’ lady, tearin’ uh strip uh cloth off her skirt, and cinchin’ up uh cut on her wrist. “Perhaps it wasn’t a complete success, Doctor, but we’ll have to do it again sooner or later. It was merely a humane act.”
“Then I’m not very strong for humanity. Hereafter I draw the line to playing wet nurse to a grizzly.”
“We overlooked one point,” states Mrs. Perfessor, wise like. “To remove an offspring of that age from its mother is like taking the sunshine from the flowers or the dew from the grass. Know what I mean?”
“She means,” states th’ doc, fingerin’ th’ long gash in his pant leg. “She means that th’ blasted brute needs milk to prolong its young life, and she induces me to help her let it imbibe condensed milk from a can.”